The Game of Life
by scarlettshazam
Summary: One is on a straight path to a fruitful, white-picket-fence life. The other is getting deeper and deeper into an underground of sex and drugs. When sex and love get involved, what will happen to Kyle and Kenny? K2.
1. Here in Death

**Characters don't belong to me, etc etc.**

**Chapter Track: Beautiful Loser - William Control**

"What the fuck are you listening to, dude?"

Kenny looked away from his ceiling – which he'd decorated with Call of Duty and Playboy posters; it was a nice-looking ceiling, he thought – and to the doorway to his bedroom, where Kyle stood, his green hat slightly crooked, and a cup of Tweek's coffee in each hand. His friend went on, lifting his brows at Kenny's secondhand stereo, "Seriously, what is this shit? It sounds like that crap the goth kids listen to."

Kenny exhaled smoke from his cigarette and took a swig of cheap beer, which he'd snagged from his dad's stash. He chuckled, "They probably do. I'm in a fucking bad mood and it seemed appropriate, okay? Why are you even here? I told you I was busy, dude."

Kyle set the cup of coffee he'd brought for Kenny on the boy's messy bedside table, and flopped back onto the beanbag chair situated on the floor. Kyle shrugged, "You sounded fucking weird on the phone, man. I thought maybe something was wrong. Instead I find you sitting in your bed, drinking and smoking. What the fuck, dude? That doesn't qualify as 'busy.' Me and Stan wanted you to hang out."

Kenny sat up on his bed, his legs crisscrossed. He waved a dismissive hand at Kyle's accusation, and a smirk appeared on his face.

"What?" Kyle demanded.

"You called me when I was getting blown, Kyle. Of course I fucking sounded weird."

This revelation caused Kyle to blush. He glanced down at the stained carpet and muttered, "Oh. Sick."

Nevertheless, Kyle and Stan were used to their best friend's antics. Stan's philosophy was to let Kenny do as he pleased, that it wasn't hurting anybody. Kyle insisted that Kenny used sex to keep his mind off of the less savory aspects of his life – his constantly fighting parents, his jailed brother, his lack of any money for anything…it had to equal a lot of damn stress. And so he reigned at South Park High as the school slut. How did he have the energy for it, anyway?

Kenny guffawed, "Oh Christ, I wish you could see the look on your face right now, man. Poor virginal Kyle!"

"Fuck off," retorted Kyle, "I'm _not._"

"Not what?" Kenny egged him on.

"A virgin, fuckstick," Kyle punctuated this with a swig of coffee.

Kenny didn't often admit to being surprised, but this revelation about Kyle Broflovski definitely fell into that category. When did Kyle even have time to have sex? Kenny wondered. When the dude wasn't studying or doing homework or nerding out with himself on the internet, Kyle was with Kenny and Stan.

This time, Kyle had a chance to laugh. He said, "Oh, my god, your face, dude. Am I really that innocent?"

"You sure as hell seemed like it," Kenny murmured, cigarette still between his lips. Then again, everybody seemed innocent in comparison to him. Sex-wise, Kenny found himself up for anything. And he meant _anything_. He hadn't worried himself with telling his best friends about his pansexuality, though he figured they wouldn't be bothered. It was his parents that would care…Conservative to the bone, if they discovered that Kenny liked dick, he'd be on the street in ten seconds flat. And, as poor as the McCormick family was, Kenny at least had a mattress and enough money to buy Marlboros.

There was a short silence between the two friends before Kyle said, "You wanna go hang out with Craig and Token at Stark's Pond? They said there'd be vodka and girls. They asked if you could score some weed. Then again, you seem already drunk…"

Kenny shook his head. He stood, stretching his arms above his head and giving his armpit an experimental sniff. He replied, "Of course I want to go, dude. Just let me change my shirt. Can't remember the last time I did. And I've only had like three beers. I'm not even buzzed." He tugged his shirt up and over his head, causing his blonde hair to stick up in all directions.

"Dude." Kyle stated.

"What?" Kenny cast his friend a look.

"When the fuck did you get those _scars_?" Kyle asked. His voice was almost a whisper.

Kenny glanced down at his chest—among the smaller scars of various deaths (a few from being stabbed, plenty from being run over, a couple burns and a nice, thick decapitation scar at the base of his neck) , one fluid marking stood out from the rest of his collection—autopsy scars. South Park's resident mortician had only once made the mistake, before she figured out Kenny's curse. She was the _only_ one that knew about it, and not because she remembered, either. Just because she believed him.

"Oh," Kenny said flatly, "they're autopsy scars."

"What? Are they from that one time you got run over when you were playing that Heaven and Hell game? But you didn't die?"

Kyle's bewilderment annoyed him. It always did, just like it annoyed him when he walked into school after a particularly painful death and his friends greeted him casually. _What's up Kenny? You look tired dude, are you alright_?

"Damn it, Kyle. I tell you this shit all the time. You always fucking forget, since we were just kids. I _can't die_, dude. I mean, I die all the time, but I always come back. If it happens when you're around, it usually goes something like 'Oh my god, they killed Kenny!' and 'You bastards!' but you forget by the time I come around," Kenny scowled, before putting out the butt of his cigarette in his novelty ash tray—it was ugly, and shaped like a hamburger.

Kyle laughed. He actually fucking laughed.

"Shit, man, that's funny. And you can pull that off with a straight face, too. Oh god. That is hilarious," Kyle clutched his sides as he laughed.

Kenny rolled his eyes and scrounged around his drawers for a t-shirt that might be clean. His only success was an ancient Terrance & Phillip shirt that he'd probably last worn when he was thirteen. When he pulled it on over his head, it was snug, but would do. He didn't care how stupid he looked in the too-small shirt and ripped up, hand-me-down jeans that were too big , and sagged past his boxers despite the belt he wore. He just wanted to get nice and thoroughly drunk. And high. High was good. High was happy, and comfortable, and safe, at least for a while.

He rummaged in his sock drawer, before pulling out a decent-sized plastic baggie filled with marijuana. It was one of his more expensive ones that he could have sold, but Kenny was too irritated with Kyle to care about the loss.

As Kyle hovered in the frame of his bedroom door, Kenny slid on his worn sneakers and zipped his traffic-cone-orange hoodie, stuffing the weed into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Alright," he said, "let's go."

The air outside was stale, the kind of midsummer Coloradan air that drove Kenny crazy when he was trapped in his house without AC. He wondered if maybe he should have stopped Kyle when the redhead had begun to laugh. He wondered if he should have said, _No, Kyle, I'm completely serious. I mean it. I die more than you play World of Warcraft._

Instead, he did what he usually would. As he Kyle walked down the sidewalk, he elbowed his friend and told a crass joke about Bebe. Kyle laughed, but said, "C'mon, dude, that's unfair," like he always did.

One day, Kenny thought. One day, I'll tell him.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hope you enjoyed, and constructive crit is always welcome.**


	2. So Fat You Can Smoke It

**Chapter Track: Lose Your Head - Zion I**

Now this…this looked promising. The gathering at Stark's Pond was bigger than Kyle had made it sound. Kenny had expected a few pretty girls, and Craig and Token. Instead, it looked as though the entirety of South Park High had shown up, plus at least half of rest of the youth of Fairplay.

By the time Kenny and Kyle approached, the party looked to be in full swing. Somebody had started a bonfire (Kyle muttered something about how that was illegal without a fire pit), several cars were parked in the distance, and a couple of trucks on the rougher terrain, including the truck that belonged to Stan. Kenny and Kyle exchanged knowing glances when they heard the sound of Wendy's voice—it would just be best to avoid that scenario altogether.

"Hey dude," Token greeted Kenny with a fist bump and man half-hug, sloshing some of the beer from his plastic red cup onto Kenny's shoulder. He whispered in Kenny's ear, slurring slightly, "you _need_ to see Bebe. She's playing beer pong with Clyde and she is _topless_."

Kenny nudged Kyle with his elbow and passed along the news, "Dude, Token says Bebe is playing beer pong with Clyde and she's topless."

Kyle lifted a brow. He looked less interested in a topless Bebe than Kenny felt, but the pair roamed over to what doubtlessly was the scene of the crime, judging by the volume of hoots and the numerous catcalls coming from a particular cluster of conifers. In the center of a clearing, Clyde and Bebe pitted against each other. Clyde looked far beyond trashed. But that was nothing compared to Bebe—she wasn't completely topless, to Kenny's disappointment (not that her tits were something that he hadn't seen before) but wore a fancy-looking blue bra that was soaked through with beer.

Kenny chuckled, "Awesome," he said, glancing over to Kyle.

Kyle was looking at him.

Weird.

"You should play next, dude," Kenny urged. He did this on the sole basis of Kyle being the most excellent drunk he'd ever seen. Kyle didn't seem to subscribe to one drunken stereotype, but was rather an inebriated shapeshifter. Kenny has seen Kyle play the sordid drunk, the angry drunk, the funny drunk, even the horny drunk (that had not ended well. Halfway through the night, Stan and Kenny had had to yank Kyle off of Butters, who was confused and stammering and still sober. Kyle remembered nothing; Stan and Kenny agreed to not bring it up unless he did).

Kyle gave the sight an assessing look and said, "I dunno, dude. I don't really like beer. Where's the hard stuff? Craig told me it would be here."

At this, Kenny smiled. He responded, "I suppose that if we find Craig, we find the better alcohol."

They waded through the tangles of teenagers (and a few that looked older but probably wanted to relive their glory days). To a sticky hip hop beat, limbs meshed and bodies ground against one another. Kenny gave a curvy brunette a smirk when she dragged her hand down his arm, but Kyle pulled him away before he had the chance to chat her up.

"Hey," protested Kenny, "she was fucking hot, dude. Why'd you do that?"

"You said we'd find Craig," Kyle answered.

Kenny exaggerated a sigh.

They found the man in question sitting at the edge of the water in a circle of laughing people. Something about Craig's monotone voice had a certain charm that a lot of people seemed to like.

"Aw, great," Kyle muttered, heaving a sigh, "Fucking fatass is over there. How the hell did he manage to hear about this?"

"It looks like everybody and their damn mom heard about this shindig, dude," Kenny replied, "Don't worry about it, man. Cartman's a fucking dickhead. You're not."

"Ooooooh, look who it is! It's the Jew and his faggy boyfriend! Hey Kinny, nice jeans! Those new, poor boy?" Cartman howled in drunken laughter at his own joke, but was not joined by any other in the circle.

Kenny rolled his eyes and said, "Fuck off, buttcrack," before tugged Kyle down to sit next to him. Kenny motioned at the bottle in Craig's right hand, "Hand it over, dude. I need to be nice and drunk if I have to sit with fatass."

"Ay!" Cartman protested.

Kenny ignored him and took the bottle—it was whiskey. He grinned. If there was one drink Kenny could hold like no other, it was whiskey. Whiskey and beer were his dad's favorites, and by twelve, Kenny had built up an excellent system to deal with either. He and Kevin used to sequester themselves in Kevin's room and drink and smoke while their parents shouted.

Kenny took an impressive chug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Beat that, fatass," he said to Cartman. Before he could hear the response, Kenny turned his attention to Craig and said, "Shit, I almost forgot. As promise, apparently." He extracted the weed from his back pocket and tossed the bag to Craig, "You owe me so hard, dude."

"Sweet," was all Craig answered.

Bowls were filled and joints rolled. Kenny personally preferred joints- he also preferred to have one to himself, which he took, as the green had belonged to him in the first place.

From there, the night unwound quickly. Kenny slumped back into the grainy sand and relaxed for the first time in days. His grades hung barely onto a pathetic thread, today marked the end of a pregnancy scare (she'd gotten the red monster, thank god), his parents were too fucked up to realize how fucking stupid the "stay together for the kids" method was, and god, he was horny.

Kenny looked over at Kyle, who'd been passed a multicolored pipe by Jimmy. The redhead's hat was missing, exposing his hair. God, Kyle was such a neat freak. Kenny could barely force himself to shower three days out of the week, let alone all of them, like Kyle did. Kenny hated being around Kyle's bedroom. He felt like he was in a goddamn museum. Not a hair was out of place.

With his mind clouded by marijuana, Kenny wondered what Kyle's curls felt like. He reached out and stuck his hand in the mass.

"Dude, that tickles," Kyle protested, shoving Kenny back half-heartedly.

"Feels nice," murmured Kenny. He inched closer to Kyle and petted his red hair as one would a dog, "Good Kyle."

"Mrphh," retorted Kyle.

Why was Kenny doing this? He got fucked up enough to know his own mind even when drowning under being high and drunk. Sure, he liked guys. He liked everybody. But this was…Kyle. He'd known Kyle since preschool. This made him feel off.

Fuck, the feeling of feeling off made it all worse. He seldom felt uncomfortable with anything.

He stood.

"Kenny?" called Kyle, still lying in the sand, "Kenny, where are you going? Stay with me. You can play with my hair, it's okay. I'm sorry I told you no," he keened. Holy shit, the dude was high. Kyle could not be any more of a fucking lightweight.

"Dude, no," Kenny stated, not knowing why he bothered. He turned his back on the sight and strode sloppily away.

Kenny stumbled through people. He pushed Token off of him and warded away the ladies that made eyes, or more, at him.

Fucking thank you, Kenny thought to himself, when he saw Stan sitting on the back of his truck, sans shirt, with one arm slung around a sated-looking Wendy. He traipsed over as best he could manage in his current condition and managed, "Dude, Stan, I need you."

"You what?"

"Need you," repeated Kenny, giving Stan a look, "Oh, fuck, not like that, you perverted fuck. I need to talk to you. Sorry, Wendy. Important shit, you see." At least that's what Kenny thought he said, but he didn't know if either in the couple had understood.

"Er, sure," Stan said. He cast an apologetic look at his girlfriend and murmured, "It'll only be a second, 'kay?"

As soon as the two boys were alone, Stan asked, "Okay dude, what the fuck do you want? You are fucked up beyond belief, man."

"I know, I know," Kenny waved his friend off and began to pace. His confession came out jumbled, "I like everybody, Stan."

"You, uh, do?" Stan's brows furrowed. Aside from his sexual nature, Kenny was known for his general disdain for humanity.

"Ung, fuck, no," Kenny exasperatedly countered, "No, I mean, I like to _fuck_ everybody."

"Goddamnit, Kenny, that is not fucking news," Stan groaned.

"_No,_" Kenny huffed, "I mean, I like dick, and vagina, and I don't give a shit who it belongs to." Pansexuality was difficult to explain while under the influence, Kenny realized. He'd probably have to give a better description when he was sober.

Stan narrowed his eyes, "I _know_, dude. I don't care. The only person that gives a shit is Cartman, and Cartman's a fucking dick. Nobody gives a shit about him. I'm going back, okay? Why don't you like, I dunno, lie down in the back of my truck, okay? Cool off and shit?" Stan began to walk off, back to his girlfriend and the bonfire.

Kenny blurted, "I think I want to screw Kyle!" to Stan's retreating back.

Stan stopped and turned his head. He slunk back to Kenny. Stan came so close to Kenny's face that Kenny could smell the sex on his friend. Stan's fists curled at his sides and he said, "Fuck no, Kenny. Just fucking no. You can screw whomever you want to screw, but leave Kyle out of your shit, okay?"

"Did you just say 'whomever'?" asked Kenny.

"Dude, I fucking mean it. Kyle's not like you, or even me, at all. He gets attached, alright? You'd crush him, man," Stan took a handful of Kenny's orange hoodie, "I'm not fucking around, okay? Just stick with Bebe or whatever you're doing right now."

Stan did go, then, back to Wendy.

Stan's opposition did not deter Kenny. He'd thought it would. Usually Stan could talk sense into Kenny, even when he was fucked up beyond belief.

For awhile, Kenny stumbled around the party, dancing with girls, dancing with dudes, not caring, particularly. Somehow, he found beer after beer in his hand. He wondered if all the shit in his system was making the music sound strange, as if it went slower and then faster, deeper and higher. The words didn't make sense to him. Hip hop didn't make sense to him. It did to Kyle. Kyle liked hip hop.

How did he know that? Why did he care?

After that, Kenny lost track of his thoughts. He didn't give a flying fuck about anything. To hell with Stan. Why shouldn't he make Kyle his next conquest?

**I don't know. You tell me what you'd like to see. Also, big thanks to kyla k. :) Your review made me want to write more of the story. **


	3. I'll Be All You Need

**Chapter Track: No One's Boy - Marcy Playground**

Kenny didn't want to open his eyes. He knew that as soon as he did, the raging hangover would be on. Plus, he'd have to discover where he ended up, and in whose bed. Or car. Or, well, just who he'd fucked. He made a long groaning noise in his throat and rolled to his side. Shit, his head hurt.

Wait.

Kenny experimentally rolled to his other side.

It felt like he was…wearing clothes.

That made Kenny open his eyes. He instantly regretted it. Colorado seemed to be forever sunny, and piercingly so—being a mile higher than the rest of the United States really fucked them over in the sun department.

"Fuuuuuuck," he hissed, clutching at his temples. He gave himself a few moments to recover from the initial shock, and then, vertebrae by vertebrae, he sat up.

"Well, fuck me," he murmured, surprised. He was, in fact, in his clothes. He wasn't missing anything—not his hoodies, or his pants, or even his shoes. He'd fallen asleep without having sex. A quick look around told him that the place he'd fallen asleep was none other than the bed of Stan's truck, which was still parked a few sprawling yards from Stark's pond. On his left side, Stan had fallen asleep spooning his girlfriend.

On Kenny's right side was Kyle. Kyle was missing clothes. Not all of them, but he was down to his boxers (were those little Triforces? Kenny squinted at the undergarment). The only bit Kenny actually recalled Kyle losing was his hat. The rest of the night was wiped from his memory. Normally Kenny would have thought that this meant he had an incredible night, but since he'd woken up in all his trappings, he figured, perhaps not.

The air was slightly cool. Stan had parked his truck so that the sunrise cast the shadows of the trees onto the vehicle, making their spot a little colder. Beside Kenny, Kyle mumbled something unintelligible and shivered.

Kenny hesitated for a moment, staring at his best friend. Then, he reached up and unzipped his bright hoodie. He tucked it around Kyle's shoulders and gazed for a moment at the odd site. Seeing Kyle wrapped in his hoodie was strangely erotic to him.

At that, Kenny shook his head and hopped from the truck bed, landing with an almost inaudible _thunk_ as his sneakers touched the ground. He slogged through the wreckage with his hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy jeans. Empty beer cans and bottles littered the area, broken up by the occasional passed-out teenager. Token had fallen asleep with his legs propped up on a tree stump, and his hand rested on Bebe's breast, who was curled up beside him in a fetal position.

Kenny crouched at the edge of the water and splashed some onto his face. It did the trick. He felt improved almost immediately. His headache, however, persisted, and he knew he wouldn't be able to survive the morning without coffee to sustain him.

He pushed his way into Tweak Bros. Coffee, which was mostly empty, except for a couple people in the back. Kenny ordered a cup of black coffee and exchanged a couple crumpled one dollar bills for the beverage.

"Have a nice morning, Mr. McCormick," Mr. Tweak said, a little too cheerfully for the time of day. Kenny mumbled a, "you too," before exiting the shop.

The coffee made for a wonderful cure. The taste of bile that had been stuck in his throat dissipated, and his head cleared. Kenny walked back to Stark's Pond at a leisurely pace.

He took the time to think. Mostly, to contemplate how to go about conquering Kyle without A) Stan finding out, or B) Stan getting involved. Why was Stan being such a pussy, anyway? _You might hurt him, Kenny_, he mocked in his head, rolling his eyes. Kenny guzzled the rest of his coffee and tossed the cup onto the sidewalk, replacing his hands in the pockets of his pants.

Kyle wasn't stupid, damn it. If Kenny managed to actually snare the guy, Kyle would know that it wouldn't be a forever thing. Kyle knew that about Kenny. He knew Kenny did do the whole commitment thing. Kenny liked sex, not the ooey-gooey bullshit that a relationship entailed. None of the baby, sweetie, hunny crap. Even Stan and Wendy became too much for him sometimes. He didn't know why, but it overwhelmed him. Made him feel sick.

As Kenny approached the pond again, it looked as though others had begun to wake. Bebe had moved Token's hand off of her tit and appeared to be searching for her MIA shirt.

"Looking good, Bebe," Kenny remarked, laughing.

"Fuck off, Kenny," she said back, but she didn't seem to be paying much attention to him.

Yeah, Kenny didn't belong to anybody. He was no one's. People belonged to him, not the other way around.

Kenny clambered back into Stan's truck. It looked as though Stan was beginning to stir, but didn't want to wake up. Kenny knew the feeling. As he slid back down to where he'd fallen asleep, Kyle murmured sleepily.

"Why are you naked, Kenny?" Kyle had said.

**o.o.o.o**

Kyle was dreaming.

Not unpleasantly, but it was sure as hell one boring fucking dream. Kyle was just…in the school's cafeteria. Eating pizza. Sitting with his friends. They were discussing the merits of Fallout: New Vegas. Or, at least, he and Kenny were discussing the merits of Fallout. Stan was macking with Wendy, Craig had his head on the table and appeared to be sleeping, and Cartman was flicking bits of food at Kyle's face by using his plastic spoon as a catapult.

"Cut it out, fatass!" dream Kyle shouted.

Cartman snickered, "Oh, look. Jew boy is sad."

Dream Kyle was about to argue, when Kenny snapped, "Cartman, shut the fuck up. Leave Kyle alone, for fuck's sake." Kenny stood up, and in his hands, a science fiction-type gun had appeared.

Kenny wasn't wearing anything. Nothing but those weird scars that he still hadn't explained to Kyle.

"Why are you naked, Kenny?" Dream Kyle asked, because that seemed like the logical question.

**o.o.o.o**

"Why am I what?"

Kyle started awake.

"Oh, Jesus," exclaimed the redhead, "Oh, fuckballs. Fucking what the fuck. Christ."

Kenny's lips quirked up, "Hangover?"

"Yes, and fuck," Kyle expressed. He took a moment to breathe, and then blinked up at Kenny, who was trying not to laugh. Kyle asked, "Um, dude. Where are my clothes?"

"Hell if I know," answered Kenny, "I woke up and you were missing them."

"Wait, why do I have your hoodie?" Kyle sat, confused, and peeled the orange jacket off of him.

Kenny shrugged, "You looked cold. You know, since you were naked and all."

"Will you two _shut up_?" Stan grumbled.

Kyle and Kenny glanced back at their friend. Stan was struggling to sit up. He had one hand massaging through his black hair. Stan complained, "Christ, dude. I'm trying to sleep off a helluva night and you two ladies are just fucking yapping away. Ah, fuck, and now look. You woke up my girlfriend."

"No, you woke me up, Stanley," Wendy said this into Stan's jacket, which she has taken and made into a pillow.

"Does anybody know where my clothes are?" asked Kyle, irritably.

"Your hat's probably someplace near the pond," put in Kenny.

"Hey Kyle!" called Bebe. The group winced at the volume of her voice, "I found your pants! At least I think they're yours…your wallet's in the back pocket. Haha, you have a punchcard for yoga? Gay!"

Kyle grumbled, but stumbled over to Bebe to collect his pants.

Kenny had never noticed before, but Kyle had a nice ass. Not too flat, not too round. Just perfect. He'd like to get his hands on an ass like that, especially if it was attached to Kyle. It probably looked even better when it wasn't covered by Zelda boxers-

"Kenny, do not even think about it," Stan warned, "I told you last night, dude. Kyle is off limits. I am not fucking around here."

Wendy said from her makeshift pillow, "Wait, what? Kenny want to fuck _Kyle_? Oh, come on, Kenny."

"Fuck off, Wendy, it's not your business. Frankly, it's not yours, either, asswipe," Kenny said to Stan.

The friends glared at each other, Kenny with his arms crossed, and Stan still with his hand in his hair. Stan then said, voice low and dangerous, "Please, Kenny."

"I am going to fuck him, Stan," Kenny replied snidely, "and you're not going to fucking stop me."

"Not if I can help it," Stan spat back.

Kenny gave this the middle finger, taking a page out of Craig's book. He may have been no one's boy, but Kyle sure as fuck _would_ be his.

**I shall dedicate this update to TheNerds. It's rather impressive how much reviews motivate me. ;)**


	4. There's No Reason to Grieve

**Chapter Track: Two-Headed Boy – Neutral Milk Hotel**

_I'm gay._

_I'm gay._

Why were those words so difficult to say? Kyle wondered. Was it because of he and his friends always throwing around the word fag? Was it because of Cartman? What was he worried about? Kenny had come out to them, finally, that morning after the party. Not like they hadn't already known that Kenny was bisexual or whatever the word he used to describe himself was. Pansexual, Kyle remembered.

Kyle was fairly certain that his parents wouldn't mind if he was gay. They seemed pretty progressive in their views, but one never could tell when you dropped the bomb on something that huge. He knew his mother wanted grandchildren. But then, there was always Ike for that, wasn't there? Ike really couldn't be any straighter.

And Kyle could take Cartman. He knew that he was generally thought of as weak (despite his place on the varsity basketball team for their school). Easy. Probably because he cared more than his friends about right and wrong, and tended to have a guilty conscience. But Kyle was from Jersey, very technically. He could throw a good punch.

There was a knock on his bedroom door.

Kyle minused his Farmville on his computer monitor and answered, "Yeah?"

"Bubula, your father and I need to have a discussion with you," Sheila opened Kyle's door. She assessed her son and queried, "Homework?"

"Uh, yeah. Summer reading essay," Kyle lied (not that he hadn't done it already, because he had. He was simply supposed to be grounded), "Look, Mom, if this is about the party, I really am sorry, and I-"

"No, no, Kyle. I think you've learned your lesson. I convinced Officer Barbrady to crack down on the underage drinking in this town. He even arrested Kenny last week, Sharon said," Sheila babbled.

"What? Kenny got arrested?"

Sheila went on, ignoring her son's question, "Anyhow, _Gerald! _Your son is ready to talk with us!" she called over her shoulder and then asked, "You don't mind us interrupting your study time, do you, bubula?"

"Of course not, Mom," Kyle answered. He was a little irked about having his Farmville time being cut short, however.

As soon as his father reached Kyle's bedroom, he shut the door behind him. Gerald was holding something behind his back. Kyle eyed him and asked, "Dad, what are you holding?"

"We have to talk first, Kyle," Gerald said, "Now, I want you to know that your mother and I love you no matter what, and-" Did they already know? How had they found out? Kyle hadn't even told anybody! "-we want you to know that it's _okay_ to have sexual feelings."

"What? Sick, Dad," Kyle grimaced.

"No, no, listen to your father," said Sheila, "you're almost eighteen, bubula. We know that you want to have sex, and maybe you already have-"

"_Mom_!" Kyle protested. This was what his parents wanted to discuss? Sex? Maybe he wasn't as well-versed in the matter as Kenny (okay, and maybe he lied about the virginity thing. Kyle thought perhaps he was a technical virgin. He had a feeling that getting a blow job from Pip behind the elementary school didn't count).

"Kyle, bubby, we have to talk about this. We don't want you getting any girls pregnant," Sheila explained.

"That's why we brought you these," Gerald put in. From behind his back, Kyle's father whipped out a jumbo box of Trojans.

Kyle put his face in his hands. He groaned, "Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it." He knew they meant well. His parents just wanted him to be safe. They were smart people, mostly. Maybe his dad was a little stagnant and maybe his mom was a little spirited, but they weren't stupid. They'd been teenagers. Hormones ran high. Plus, Kyle thought that Sharon Marsh might have told his mother about catching Stan and Wendy in the act last year. _Fucking awkward._

"We just want you to be careful, bubby," Sheila leaned down and kissed Kyle on the cheek, and his father messed with his hair. He gave them both a thin, but uncomfortable smile, before they left together—looking like they felt as though they had done their son well.

Kyle turned back to his computer and clicked Farmville into the screen again. Butters had left a sign.

So they didn't know he was gay. They didn't know that he would never get any girls pregnant, ever.

And _shit. _Kyle exited Facebook. He'd been so distracted by the sheer gawkiness of the conversation with his parents that he'd almost forgotten what his mother had said. Kenny had been arrested. He stood so quickly that the blood rushed from his head and he tripped forward toward his shoes.

"Goddamnit,"Kyle cursed under his breath. He laced up his green converse, and, with a quick glance outside, threw on his jacket.

For whatever reason, climate change or what have you, Colorado had been getting an inordinate amount of rain that summer. Kyle thought it was nice. He didn't like warmer weather very much. It was weird to have their town actually feel muggy. Usually, it was dry as bone. Kyle traipsed through the drizzle. He didn't mind getting damp. It wasn't that bad.

The walk to Kenny's took Kyle around fifteen minutes, a little more today. When Kyle went to cross the train tracks, a massive train hauling coal was passing by at a snail's pace. Kyle heaved an exasperated sigh. He hadn't seen Kenny since the party. Once the town had heard about the incident, half of South Park's youth had been grounded indefinitely, himself included. He imagined that Kenny had gotten a free pass—his parents didn't exactly care what he got up to.

As soon as the train cleared out of the way, Kyle jogged across the track. In the drizzle, Kenny's house looked dingier than it did usually. The paint on the door was peeling, and some stuck to his jacket when he knocked.

Kenny's little sister Karen answered the door. Kyle asked, slightly out of breath, "Is Kenny home?"

"I dunno," she said, shrugging her shoulders. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called behind her, into the mess of the McCormick house, "Kenny! Kenny! Kennnnnnny!" When there was no answer, Karen retreated into the house and went up the stairs.

Kyle awkwardly stood in the doorway, waiting for her. He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet when Stuart and Carol began to stare at him over their beers. They'd always made him feel a little off.

Karen returned, and shrugged her shoulders again, "He's not here." Before Kyle could inquire as to where Kenny _might_ be, Karen closed the door. He stood there for a moment, going over Kenny's usual hotspots.

Could you get jail time for being drunk and disorderly? Kyle wondered. He took his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text off, knowing that he probably wouldn't get answer. Kenny didn't use his phone much, since it was a pay by month. God, what if Kenny had fucking gotten thrown in jail? His parents wouldn't have noticed. Kyle didn't think you got time for public drinking, but he couldn't be sure, especially since Kenny had a few prior misdemeanors under his belt already. Kyle's own record was spotless, despite all the trouble he seemed to find himself in when he was with his friends.

On this thought, Kyle slowly retreated from the McCormick house. He stopped at the edge of the curb and sent a "You seen Kenny?" text to Stan, just in case.

Then Kyle heard it.

Whistling?

"What the fuck?" Kyle murmured to himself. Strange noises were never a good sign in South Park. He followed the sound between Kenny's house and his neighbors, toward the sparse woods that decorated the bases of the mountains. Against his better judgment, his feet moved of their own accord, toward the sound, and probably something really fucked up.

As Kyle got closer, the whistling became clearer. It was that "I Will Be (500 Miles)" song from the eighties. His mom loved that song.

"Hey, hello?" Kyle tried.

The whistling stopped.

A few seconds later, "Dude, is that you, Kyle?"

"Kenny?"

Kyle strode forward and pushed through a thicket of scratchy brush. Kenny was in the clearing, wearing his usually, slightly soiled orange hoodie. He'd arranged a stool under one of the firs with higher branches. As Kyle approached, he noticed Kenny had fastened two belts together and attached the contraption to the tree.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing, Kenny?" demanded Kyle.

"Killing myself," Kenny said, nonchalant.

"Shit, no, please, Kenny. Whatever it is, we can fix it, dude. You don't have to kill yourself, man," Kyle prattled. He staggered forward and whacked the belts out of Kenny's grip.

Kenny rolled his eyes as the belts swung back and forth like a tire swing, caught them, and began to buckle the lower belt around his neck. He said, "I've told you already, dude. I can't die. No fuckin' worries. I'll wake up in about an hour in bed. And you'll forget."

"What are you fucking talking about, Kenny? This isn't fucking funny!" Kyle cried, "Why are you doing this?"

That gave Kenny pause. He answered, "I dunno, man. I was bored. This is much more interesting with you here. You wanna smoke?" Kenny extracted a pack of Marlboros out from the back pocket of his jeans and offered it to Kyle.

"You know I don't smoke," Kyle said, "Seriously, dude, please. Just take off the belts. We'll hang out. We can do whatever you want to. C'mon, Kenny."

"Your loss," Kenny said, evidently ignoring Kyle's pleas for Kenny not to end his life. Kenny pulled out a cigarette and lit with his favorite lighter- it was decorated with a topless woman with tattoos down her arms. He took a drag in and spoke as he exhaled through his nostrils, "Look, Kyle, chill the fuck out. I'll come back after I do this. I just haven't tried hanging in a while, you know?"

"You haven't what?" Kyle repeated stupidly.

"Now, how about a goodbye kiss?" Kenny winked at Kyle and leaned down slightly. He couldn't lean much. The belts prevented that.

"Holy shit, dude! Don't!" Kyle gave Kenny a push back so that he stood straight on the stepstool.

Kenny took advantage of the position and pressed his lips to Kyle's. They stood like that for a moment, with Kyle standing up on his tip toes, and Kenny barely facing down, belts still fastened around his neck. The blonde slid his tongue across Kyle's lower lip. He flicked his half-finished cigarette off to the side and knocked Kyle's hat off of his head, so he could tangle his hands in his red curls. Kenny explored the inside of Kyle's mouth, running his tongue over his teeth.

Kyle didn't know what to do, other than to submit to the attention. Kenny tasted strangely good, like cigarette smoke and spearmint gum. What the hell was happening? This was his best friend. This was Kenny fucking McCormick, for God's sake. It should have been like kissing his brother, but it wasn't. Kyle had kissed before, on plenty of occasions, but none of those kisses had felt like this. So _good._

But then, Kenny McCormick was fairly experienced, wasn't he?

Kenny separated their mouths and pressed a damp kiss to Kyle's throat. He sucked and nipped at one spot until Kyle released a small, helpless moan.

Then, Kenny pulled back completely. He flicked his eyes over Kyle, who was now thoroughly disheveled, and remarked, "Nice hickey."

Kyle, though still trying to catch his breath, and his brain, managed, "Kenny, get down from there."

"Aye, sir!" Kenny grinned, and leapt from the stool.

**o.o.o.o**

Urgent knocking sounded on Kenny McCormick's bedroom door, before it burst open, and his two best friends barreled in.

He yawned and stretched from side to side, testing out his new organs, and greeted, "Hey guys."

"Hey dude, we're going over to Clyde's for some hookah," Stan said, "You down?"

Just as usual. Kenny glanced at the clock beside his bed. Seven thirty-two. His friends didn't remember that he'd died just over an hour ago.

But then, he noticed the shadow-like, round bruise on Kyle's neck.

Kenny smiled, "Totally down."

**o.o.o.o**

**Here, have chapter four. :) Another thanks to TheNerds, and also to caffeineswing9, whose K2 story is *really* fucking good, and you should go read it now, I say. Reviews are nice, they make me write more. But not obligatory! I hope you enjoyed, and constructive crit is always welcome. Also, please tell me when there are typos.**


	5. Doing the Croak Like it Ain't No Joke

**Chapter Track: The Hollows – Why?**

Kyle scrubbed his hands clean at the bathroom sink at Clyde's. His mom had purchased one of those fancy-ass soaps from the bath stores Kyle seemed to find himself being always dragged into by Bebe or Wendy. Maybe they didn't _know_ know that he was gay, but it seemed that the women of his acquaintance had excellent subconscious gaydars. Or maybe, it was just that he shut up when they brought him inside, and maybe even participated a little in trying out the different scents.

Kyle turned the bottle of soap around in his hands. Warm Vanilla Sugar, it was called. He liked that one. He squeezed the liquid out into his palm. It foamed when it hit air, and he lathered, humming softly. Outside the bathroom, he could hear the laughter of his friends, and smell the pomegranate hookah that they'd been passing around. He didn't smoke hookah to excess—if he did, he got a stomach ache.

He looked up into the mirror and tucked a stray curl of red hair back underneath his hat.

"…What the hell?"

Kyle pulled down the collar of his jacket, leaning into the mirror. "What the hell is that?" Kyle muttered. The words sounded stupid when they came out of his mouth. He knew what the distinctive bruise on the right side of his throat was. He knew very well. He hadn't had many in his almost eighteen years of life, but it was hard to mistake a hickey. He had bite marks. Where in Christ had he gotten a hickey?

Unsettled, Kyle exited the bathroom. He squished his toes into the shag carpeting as he walked. It made the short trip to the living room slower, so he could think. Damn it, Kyle, think. What had he been doing today? The hickey looked fresh, as if he'd had for only a few hours. Testing this theory, he gave the bruise an experimental poke. It was definitely still tender. Definitely new. Was he…had he…had he been attacked?

Kyle plopped down on the couch, between Kenny and Jimmy.

"You a-alright, Kyle?" Jimmy stammered out, lifting a brow.

Kyle plastered a smile onto his face and took the hookah's hose from Jimmy's grip, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just spacing out, dude. This is fucking good hookah, Clyde. Thanks for the invite." He inhaled through the hose, despite having claimed that he was done for the night before he'd left for the restroom, and exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, before passing the hose off to Kenny.

Kyle watched as Kenny blew out a series of skillful smoke rings. As they expanded, the rings started to look like a target.

"Pass that over here, Gandalf," directed Token, eliciting a few chuckles out of the smoky circle.

Abruptly, Kyle stood. He said, "I think I need some air. Anybody wanna come with?"

Stan joined Kyle as he slid open the glass back door, treading onto Clyde's back porch. Kyle leaned over the wooden railing waving to Clyde's barking golden retriever. He gave the dog a scratch behind the ears, and glanced over to his best friend.

Stan wore an expression of worry. He asked, "What's going on, dude? You're acting weird as shit tonight. Did something happen?"

"I don't know," answered Kyle, and that was honest truth. He didn't like that that was truth. How the fuck did one manage to get a magical hickey out of fucking nowhere? He hoped it wasn't another of South Park's freak epidemics. He could not fucking deal with another stupid anomaly when his senior year was coming up.

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'? How can you not know?" Stan quizzed. His dark brows were knit together.

Kyle pulled his hand away from Clyde's dog and rested it back onto the railing. He cleared his throat. He tugged off his jacket and said, "Stan, look at this." Kyle pointed.

Stan squinted in the dim light that came from the house. He said, "It's a hickey. So what?"

"I don't know where the hell it came from, Stan. I just looked in the mirror like five minutes ago and it was just fucking there," Kyle said, "How can I not remember where I got a goddamn hickey from?"

Stan scowled. He released a heavy breath and replied, "I think I might know." Before Kyle could ask what Stan meant, he was stalking back into Clyde's house.

Stan kicked his way through the circle, knocking over the hookah in the process. The coals fell into the white shag carpet, and as Clyde swore at him, Stan yanked Kenny up with his left hand. With his right, he wound and landed a punch square in Kenny's jaw.

"What the flying fuck, Stan?" cried Kyle.

Kenny ground out, "What the hell was that for, Marsh?"

"Don't fucking play that game with me, Kenny. Kyle has some fucking mystery hickey, and you're going to tell me that you know absolutely fucking _nothing_ about it? I call bullshit," shouted Stan, "I told you to lay off him. I'm not fucking around. I told you that!" For good measure, Stan threw a second punch, and then a third. There was a sharp _crack_ as the rest of the group grew silent, and Kenny's face snapped to the side.

When the blonde looked back up, his nose was crooked and bleeding. Kenny spit blood onto the carpet.

"Aw, come on," Clyde said, "I'm never inviting you over again, fucking assholes."

"I promise I have nothing to do with Kyle's magic hickey," Kenny sneered at Stan. He stood and gave the others a curt nod, "Now I'm going to go the fuck home, if you'll excuse me."

Kyle smoothed a hand over his forehead and said, "I don't know what the hell is going on, Stan, but I'm going with him. You're my best friends, dude. You don't just get to fucking punch each other without letting me know what the goddamn fuck is going on. Okay?"

At the door, Kyle shoved his shoes on without socks and went without lacing them. Kenny was halfway down the block when he jogged down the stairs up to Clyde's house.

"Kenny, wait!" Kyle called after his friend.

Kenny paused mid-stride and glanced back. He let Kyle catch up with him.

"What was that all about?" asked Kyle, "Do you know what the hell Stan is talking about? I haven't ever seen you guys go at it like that."

Kenny didn't give Kyle an instant answer. For awhile, they just walked, side by side, at a comfortable pace, neither saying anything at all. As was typical of the weather, it had cleared out, and the sky was completely clear. There were coyotes howling someplace off in the distance, and fainter still, the sound of somebody holding a summer barbecue—which they could smell, too. Kyle heard Kenny's stomach growl.

"When was the last time you ate, man?" Kyle asked softly.

Kenny coughed into his hands and gave the question some thought. His voice came out a little nasally, sounding almost like Craig, because of his still-bloody broken nose. He said, "Maybe yesterday morning? I think I had a twinkie."

Kyle sighed and suggested, "Come, we can head back to my house. We can have some pizza rolls or something. I think we might have some of my mom's meatloaf left in the fridge, if you're interested."

"I don't need charity, Kyle," Kenny responded.

Kyle retorted, "But you need food, you idiot. Plus I can get you some ice for your nose, or whatever."

Kenny frowned down at the sidewalk as he gave the offer some consideration. His lips twitched, moving his lip ring so that it glinted under the light of a street lamp. Then, he relented, "Oh, alright."

**o.o.o.o**

As soon as the boys enter the Broflovski house, Sheila fussed over Kenny's state. She gave him a damp washcloth to mop up the blood with, and offered to throw his hoodie in the wash before the blood could stain it. And so, Kenny sat in the Broflovski kitchen, clutching a washcloth to his face, feeling naked in nothing but his jeans and Nightwish t-shirt (which he just noticed, with a touch of mourning, had a hole at the bottom seam).

Kyle stuck a hot pocket in front of Kenny. It wasn't until he smelled the processed ham and cheese that he realized how hungry he had been, and bit into the food with a grateful but muffled, "Thanks, Kyle."

"No problem, dude," Kyle said. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, and then queried, "So, _do_ you know what Stan was talking about?"

Kenny sighed, "Yeah."

"Are you going to talk to me about it, or be a total dick?" Kyle then inquired, feeling it was appropriate thing to be asked when his two best friends had just gotten into a round of fisticuffs. Well, more like Stan had punched Kenny a few times, and was being a douchebag, but approximately the same thing.

"Can I finish my hot pocket first?" Kenny said.

Kyle waved him off, and Kenny made an effort to eat faster. As he was licking the grease from his fingertips, Kyle said, "C'mon, let's go upstairs."

Kenny jumped onto Kyle's bed. It was far more comfortable than his own. Less than twenty years old, no springs that stuck into his back, no creaking when he rolled over.

"Hey, careful, asshole," Kyle said, "my Batman comics are on there." Kenny smiled sheepishly as his friend extracted the precious booklets from underneath his feet, and tucked them back into their place on his desk.

Kenny cleared his throat, and with little ado, said, "I was the one that gave you the hickey."

Kyle gaped, "What?"

"I gave you the fucking hickey, asswipe," Kenny repeated, "Look, you were fully conscious, okay? And I'd like to believe that you were a willing participant. You just can't remember because I died, right after it happened."

Kyle's head swam. He tentatively concluded, "So what you're saying is, we made out, and then you died. And my memory is wiped because of that." What in all the flying fucks? Weird shit happened in South Park, but this might have been the fucking weirdest yet. And that, by God, was saying something.

"…Yes," Kenny stated. Kyle could tell that Kenny was uncomfortable. Though Kenny never looked upset outwardly, Kyle had observed that the blond rotated his lip ring with his tongue, close-mouthed, when something got to him. A post-piercing habit. The guy was known to have nerves of steel, but Kyle felt he knew slightly better than anybody else. He and Kenny had been friends since preschool.

"Kyle?" Kenny said, interrupting his reverie.

"Uh, yeah?"

Kenny patted Kyle's plaid comforter. He suggested, "Sit down. I'll show you."

Kyle's feet remained firmly planted on the ground. He connected gazes with Kenny's. A shock-like feeling climbed up Kyle's veins, making him feel woozy, like he'd had just a little too much to drink. Though Kenny's expression was neutral, his grey eyes were hard, clouded over with something that looked too much like lust.

"I don't bite," put in Kenny, resuming his friendly tone of voice—that now severely clashed with the look in his eyes, "unless you're into that. And I think you might be. I think I have to find that out." To illustrate, Kenny flashed his teeth and knocked them together to make a _clunk_ sort of a noise.

And that, yes, _that_, for whatever reason, was what made Kyle take Kenny's hand when the boy offered it. Kyle's heart beat like a war drum. All that ran through his head was a long, thin stream of _ohshitohshitohshitohshit. _What if his parents caught them? Oh fuck, who cared about that? He could feel himself getting hard at Kenny fucking McCormick's touch. And Kenny wasn't even doing anything even vaguely inappropriate yet!

"Kyle, calm the fuck down," Kenny murmured.

"I'm calm," Kyle insisted.

"No, you're not," Kenny's voice had withered down to a whisper. He slid upright behind Kyle, shifting so that each of his legs laid right outside of Kyle's, touching, just barely, making the moment painfully erotic in only the way that Kenny could, "Your mind is going at a million miles a minute. I can practically hear your thoughts, dude."

Then Kenny pressed his lips against Kyle's throat. Kyle released the breath that he'd been holding in his chest. His hand reached back and gripped Kenny's. Kenny's fingers were rough, like they'd never seen a moment of rest. He ran the pad of his thumb over the back of Kyle's hand. Kyle shuddered quietly.

"If you want me to stop, you can tell me," Kenny said into his ear.

Kyle shook his head incoherently. He used his free hand to grip Kenny's hair and tug him forward, into a kiss. Oh God. He had never kissed like this. Kenny eased Kyle back, so his head laid on his pillow, and Kenny loosely straddled him.

Kenny put light kisses against the side of Kyle's jaw.

Kyle groaned. He wriggled a little under Kenny's weight. Kenny's erection rubbed against his own. Kyle moaned a little louder.

"Jesus, dude," Kenny panted. His hands slid underneath Kyle's plain t-shirt.

A knock on the bedroom door interrupted them. Sheila's voice echoed on the other side, "Bubula, Stan is here."

Kenny and Kyle leapt apart.

"Oh, shit," muttered Kenny. Kyle adjusted himself, hoping that Stan wouldn't notice his raging hard on, and answered the door.

"Hey dude," Stan greeted, as his friend opened the door, "Your mom said Kenny's here too?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Kenny announced from Kyle's bed, "you fucking dick."

Stan came into the room, shamefaced. He said, "Look, I shouldn't have punched you in the face."

"You think?" Kenny said, "Usually you get a nice fuck before being fisted, you fucker."

Kyle snorted.

Stan turned around and gave this glare. He reworked his words to Kenny, "Dude, I'm sorry. But…I bought you some cigarettes. You know, like a peace offering or some shit." Stan reached into the pocket of his jacket and tossed a pack of Marlboros to Kenny, who caught them with a graceful flick of his hand.

"Oh, alright. Since I'm the best fucking friend ever, you're forgiven," Kenny, mollified, conceded. He pocketed the cigarettes.

Kyle pitched in, "Stan, I don't need a savior or anything. I can hold my own, dude."

"I know, man. I'm just fucking stressed, okay? It makes me pull stupid shit, like this," Stan admitted. Kyle would have asked Stan what was bothering him, but something in Stan's tone told Kyle that the matter was best left alone, at least for the time being.

"So, now what? Do we have ourselves a faggy little friendship hug?" Kenny asked.

Stan scoffed, "No, but we can hash it out in CoD."

"Done," Kenny said.

**o.o.o.o**

**So, as nerdy as this is, I'm thinking of driving to the actual South Park this weekend for research purposes (I live like two hours away—this is why I kind of rag on Colorado weather). Many, many thank yous to TheNerds, again. Your reviews keep making me want to update at this insane pace. Also a big thank you to That Nixi Rose. I liked your suggestion to change the title, and so I did indeed change it (But you totally gave me a heart attack when I got the review e-mail. I only saw the 'this is disgusting' part in the subject line and about shat a brick).**

**Also, I'm pretty sure nobody has noticed, but I felt like it deserved a mention: All the titles of the chapters are lyrics from the chapter tracks that I put at the top.**

**I have fabulous taste in music. Just sayin'.**


	6. Some Years I Don't Show Up At All

**Chapter Track: I Will Light You On Fire – Golden Shoulders**

It was the first day of their senior year of high school. If any of them had been sentimental, they might have said that that day was the first day of the rest of their lives. Instead, they mourned the end of their summer, and grimly faced the year ahead.

Cartman approached where Stan, Kyle and Kenny sat outside the school, waiting for class. Kyle was rereading the essay for their summer reading assignment for the seventh time. Stan played on his Gameboy. Kenny was smoking a cigarette and staring at his hands as if he'd had a revelation about them.

"Oh, hey guys," Cartman greeted. His chins jiggled.

"What do you want, fatass?" asked Stan, without moving his eyes from the apparently intense game of Pokemon he held in his hands.

"Well," Cartman said, reaching into his pocket, "I wrote you fags a _poem._"

Kenny let out a hoot of laughter, "Wait, you wrote a poem? And we're the fags? Fuck off, Cartman."

Cartman replied, "Oh, Kinny. You wouldn't understand. You're too poor for poetry." He cleared his throat and unfolded the bit of notebook paper that he'd taken out of the pocket of his jeans, "I call it, 'An Old to Stupid Fucking School.'"

"Come on, Cartman, we don't fucking have time for this," Kyle said.

"Why, Kahl. I thought that being the dirty hippie Jew you are, you'd appreciate poetry," Cartman batted his eyes at them. When it was clear that he wasn't going away, the trio heaved a collective sign and sat back in the grass, waiting for whatever awful thing was about to assault their ears.

Cartman cleared his throat a second time, and began to read, "Oh, high school/filled with smelly Jews/And poor people Kenny/Who's a fag…"

Kyle glanced over at Kenny, who'd taken his lighter out of his backpack. He flicked on the flame, and as Cartman continued to read his "poem," Kenny held the flame at the hem of Cartman's jeans. It took mere seconds for the denim to catch fire.

"Holy shit! Fuck!" Cartman dropped his poem, which Kenny took up and tore in two.

"Stop, drop and roll, Cartman," called Bebe, from across the school parking lot. Normally, Cartman would not have bothered listening to Bebe, but when one is one fire, their concentration is typically on not dying. As so, much to the amusement of the gathering crowd, Eric Cartman dropped onto his knees and then, ungracefully, onto his face, and proceeded to roll from side to side.

Tragically, this method was effective. The fire was out in a handful of seconds.

It was this incident that landed Kenny in Principal Victoria's office before first period had even begun. In the chair beside him, Cartman sniffled dramatically. Kenny slouched further down into his chair and scowled.

Principal Victoria closed the door to her office, and when she sat across from the two boys, she released a long, tired sigh. She pushed her glasses up further on the bridge of her nose, folded her hands, and then turned her head toward Kenny.

"Mr. McCormick?" She said.

Kenny had pulled his hood up so that it covered most of his face. It still smelled like Kyle's laundry. Like nice detergent and fabric softener. Things his family didn't think of. He didn't say anything.

"I understand that you-," Principal Victoria cleared her throat as she glanced over the referral that had been written up a few short minutes after that morning's incident had occurred, "-lit Eric on fire? Kenny McCormick! I have seen you and your friends get into plenty of trouble through the years, but there should be _no_ reason to light somebody on fire."

Kenny found that he rather disagreed, but found it more practical to remain silent than to argue with his school's principal.

"Well?" Principal Victoria prompted, "Boys, is that what happened?"

"Yeeeesss," whined Cartman, looking like a wounded puppy. Shit, that guy had perfected his act.

Kenny said nothing, still, but gave a terse nod.

"Very well," Principal Victoria said, "I'm very sorry, Mr. McCormick, but I'm going to have to suspend you for the first week of school. Next time I find you in here, Kenny, expulsion is on the table. You've only got one more year to go—it shouldn't be too hard to keep clean for the rest of it. Normally, I'd call your parents to pick you up, but I've been told that both of your parents work dayshifts, is that correct?"

Kenny nodded again.

"Alright then. Eric, you may go to your first period. Kenny, stay here while I write up the paperwork. Then you can walk home."

On his way out, Cartman stuck out his tongue at Kenny. Kenny gave Cartman the finger in return.

As soon as Cartman left, Principal Victoria clucked her tongue at Kenny, shaking her head as she penned in the details of his suspension. She said, "Mr. McCormick, I know that Eric can be a little…provoking, at times. I just don't want you to dismiss the importance of school. Sometimes, you have to ignore people to get where you want to go."

Kenny rolled his eyes heavenward. He knew he had no future. He was already a drug dealer. He'd have offed himself years ago if it had been possible. Scratch that, he'd offed himself several times already, but was doomed to return to his life, despite his numerous and varied attempts at murdering himself. Perhaps one day he'd find the method that worked.

Principal Victoria sent him off with only a little more lecturing. Kenny found, in spite of the fact that he had not been listening, that it was rather touching that somebody gave a damn about his future. Even _he_ didn't give a damn about his future. Kenny thought, what if he _never_ died? Then, no matter how much he fucked up his life, he would have time to fix it. If he gave enough of a shit to fix it.

The sky clouded over as Kenny wove back to his house. It began to rain, and only then did he take his hood down. He didn't mind getting wet. And maybe if it rained all over his hoodie, it would stop fucking smelling like Kyle. He loved that scent, _but_…he had to stop getting fucking horny at the most inopportune moments. And Christ, with just that thought, Kenny's mind couldn't help but wander to the last night when he and Kyle had had time alone, that night that Stan had broken his nose and then interrupted what very well could have become some excellent fucking.

Kenny burned through four cigarettes before he reached his shithole of a house, shivering from being soaked through to the bone, wishing that he was high and in bed with Kyle Broflovski. That would just be fucking _ideal._

Kenny jiggled the doorknob to find that it was locked. Not that the lock did much. He managed to pick it with his school ID, and shouldered the door open.

_"I told you, you ain't taking any of my money, no more! You cheap bastard!"_

Oh, fuck, Kenny thought.

_"Shut up, you stupid whore! I'm the man of the house, so it's my money."_

_ "I make your goddamn money! I do the work!"_

For Christ's sake. Both of them should have been at work, and instead, his parents were home arguing over who did the work and who earned the money. As fucking usual. Kenny tossed his backpack onto the couch and sidled to the fridge.

Nothing but beer, of course. But wait. Kenny reached into the back.

Success. A package of hot dogs. He'd have checked the expiration date if he could die, but figured, since he couldn't, at least he'd have something to eat. For good measure, he took a beer as well. It would piss off his parents. It served them right. Pieces of shit.

_"You stupid bitch! I've spent the fuckin' best years of my life with you!"_

Kenny stripped out of his wet clothes, leaving them strewn on the floor to dry. He cracked open the beer and gave the hot dogs an experimental sniff. Hmm, one could never tell with hot dogs.

One dilemma remained. How the fuck was he supposed to entertain himself for a week when his friends were in fucking school? Stan would maybe a ditch a day for Kenny, but Kyle was staunch about his attendance record. That was fucking inconvenient as hell, being that Kenny had no interest whatsoever in screwing Stan, but practically salivated at the thought of Kyle. In his bed. Sans clothing. Kenny would bet that Kyle's skin wasn't all torn up and scarred like his was. It would look pale and pretty. Kenny wondered if Kyle shaved. That seemed like the kind of thing that Kyle would do.

Aw, shit. Kenny's attention was diverted to the front of his boxers. All he had to fucking do was fucking wonder whether or not Kyle shaved, and he got a boner? At this, Kenny located his cigarettes, lit and took a drag. He washed the nicotine down with a swallow of beer, and went searching for his beaten, ancient laptop.

The laptop didn't work, like, at all. It was a slow, nearly usless, on-the-brink-of-death piece of shit, but it performed its duty as well as any soldier. It contained Kenny's porn collection.

Kenny McCormick owned one _hell_ of a porn collection. It was his pride and joy, the way libraries were to their librarians. He had every kind of person doing every terrible, debauched deed that one could come up with. His collection of porn was the single thing that Kenny kept organized, and he found himself being thankful that he did. For, as he reclined on his bed, smoking and trying to tune out his arguing parents, he realized that he had a very specific craving, and only that craving would do to jack off to.

Redheads.

As soon as his computer wheezed to life, he clicked open his porn portfolio.

"Guy on guy," Kenny mumbled to himself, "aaand redheads."

Admittedly, it wasn't quite the same as what had happened between Kenny and Kyle, but when the porn star turned around, obscuring his face, it was easy to pretend that the body of the porn star was actually Kyle's body. It had to be close. Slim, but not weak. Athletic. Maybe slightly gawky. Kenny didn't know why the fuck that appealed to him, but it did.

He ran his hand up and down his erection, slowly at first, cuddling back into his pillow, every so often taking a drag of his cigarette, or a sip of beer. He quickened his pace as the actors did. He remembered why he'd saved this particular video, now. It didn't seem like the actors were acting. They seemed way into the fucking they were doing, at least enough to convince Kenny.

Kenny had perfected his masturbation technique. He'd learned to lengthen the time it took to orgasm so that he came when the porn stars did. This was, naturally, when he wanted something visual. His imagination sometimes worked just as well.

Just as the two men on his laptop's screen cried out, moaning in a keening, needy sort of way, Kenny did too. He came on his hand—avoiding the computer. The thing could only take so much more abuse.

As he closed his laptop and set it aside, catching his breath, he heard more shouts from his parents' bedroom.

"_I'm gonna kill you, you fucking bitch!"_

_ "Not if I kill you first, you motherfucker!"_

There was crash. Loud.

Then—nothing.

**o.o.o.o**

**Blah, sorry there wasn't as much going on in this chapter as the last couple. There'll be more action in the next one, if it goes as I'm thinking it will (but I don't plan this shit, it just comes to me, so who knows). Thank you to xXxDonnieDarkoxXx. I'm so glad you like it! If there's anything that you'd really like to see, I love hearing suggestions from my lovely, wonderful readers. ;D Another thank you to kyla k, and many apologies to keeping you frustrated with this not-much-happens chapter. Thank you also to TheAwesome15. I love you guys.**


	7. Wrecked Up and Paralyzed

**Chapter Track: Diamond Dogs – Beck (I know it's originally David Bowie, I just think this cover has a sound to it that better matches this)**

Kenny frowned. He yanked his boxers up over his hips and found his only other pair of jeans, since the other pair was still soaked from the rain. He pulled them on without buttoning or zipping up.

He listened at the door of his parents' room for a moment, debating whether or not he should go in. He admitted to being slightly concerned—ever since he'd scared the shit out of his high-off-their-asses parents in his Mysterion costume, they'd stopped beating the shit out of each other, for the most part, and resorted to yelling louder instead.

Kenny coughed loudly, hoping that they'd hear him, even though he couldn't hear them anymore, which was a bad, bad, _very bad_ sign with his parents. He knew he hated it when Cartman made fun of his family (despite the fact that he wasn't fond of them either, except for maybe his younger sister), but his parents did fit the proverbial "white trash" bill. Loud, angry, drunks, lazy. Recent members of the Tea Party.

"Goddamnit," muttered Kenny. He pushed his way into his parents' room without knocking.

His dad was sitting against the far wall, where the wallpaper was stained and peeling from water damage. In Stuart McCormick's shaking hand, he held a joint. When Kenny entered the room, his father glanced up briefly, put the joint to his lips, and inhaled. His eyes were red-rimmed, but it looked as if that was not only from the weed, but from crying.

Kenny made a soft 'ahem' noise, and asked, "Where the fuck is Mom?"

Stuart didn't say anything, just pointing over to the other side of their bed. This is where a real father would have asked why the hell Kenny wasn't at school. Why, at ten in the morning on a Tuesday, Kenny was at home, shirtless, with a cigarette in his hand. Kenny could remember the _one_ time that Kyle had ditched class, an incident in their freshman year, because Gerald and Sheila had thrown the biggest parental temper tantrums he'd ever witnessed in his lifetime. His parents had never been upset with him for conventional reasons. No, it was more like, "Kenny, did you drink the last beer?" or "Kenny, get a fucking job," or "Kenny, you're a waste of space."

Kenny walked over to where Stuart had pointed.

Against the wall, Carol was slumped. A lamp was beside her, the ceramic base cracked into three large pieces. This explained the crash that he had heard. He crouched beside his mother and nudged her shoulder with his knuckles.

"Mom, get up," Kenny said impatiently. When she didn't budge, he tried a different method, "Mom, Dad drank the last beer."

"NoIdint," protested Stuart, from the other side of the bed.

When that didn't work, Kenny knew that something was wrong. He found himself checking his mother's pulse. He lifted her head up and placed two fingers against her neck.

When Kenny withdrew his hand at the feeling of Carol's heartbeat, there was blood on his fingers.

"Oh, _fuck_," Kenny cursed, "God fucking damn it."

He placed his mother's head back against the carpet and went to his room to collect his cellphone. The hospital was too far too walk to, and their truck had broken down last week. As much as he hated the notion, he would have to call an ambulance. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. _They didn't have health insurance, of course, and so a fucking trip to the hospital would cost the McCormicks, for at least the next year.

He dialed 911 and waited for the paramedics. Kenny sat by his mom. He knew that it was maybe sentimental, but he held her bleeding head in his lap. Christ, she was his _mom._ Sure, he hated her, but he didn't want her to die. She didn't have the same immortal hex that he had. She _could_ die. Fucking damn this day to hell, he thought viciously, just as the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

**o.o.o.o**

"What do you think happened?" asked Kyle, rereading the text he'd gotten from Kenny for the millionth time during their drive to the hospital.

"_come 2 hospital. need u guys"_

Stan said, "I dunno, it could be fucking anything. He sent the text to me, too, so it must be pretty bad. I think he's still pissed at me for breaking his nose."

"_I'm _still pissed at you for breaking his nose, dude," Kyle said, "What if he got hit by another car? What if he's in a coma?"

"How would Kenny have texted us if he was in a coma, dumbass?" asked Stan, raising a single brow.

"Shut up," Kyle snapped back. He knew he was acting like an asshole. It was just that Kenny so seldom _needed_ anybody. Shit, Kenny was the most independent person he'd ever met. The guy did everything by himself, rarely accepted help, even if the fucker was starving and needed something to eat. For Christ's sake, Kenny had started selling weed in the tenth grade, just so he could pay for school lunches and field trips.

Stan parked his truck in the hospital parking lot. It was slightly crooked- normally Kyle would have said something, but his concern for his best friend-cum-guy he kissed occasionally overrode his irritation at bad parking.

Stan and Kyle power walked through the lot, practically barreling into the lobby. Stan looked uncomfortable. He hated hospitals.

"Can I help you?" asked the receptionist.

"Uh, yeah. Where's Kenny McCormick?" asked Kyle, using Kenny's surname despite the fact that South Park was small enough and Kenny got into so many accidents that he was almost certainly on a first name basis with the hospital staff, "Is he okay?"

"Oh, he's fine. It's Carol in this time," the receptionist explained. She called over a nurse and instructed him to lead the boys to the McCormick room.

Kenny was pacing in the linoleum-lined hallway. It looked as though he'd been running his hands through his blond hair. His hair stuck up in all directions. If Kyle didn't know better, he'd have thought it was Tweek. Kenny appeared to be missing his shirt, and had been given scrubs instead, which he wore over one of his pairs of old jeans. Somehow, between the harried movement of Kenny's legs and the ugly fluorescent light, the scars on Kenny's back looked more prominent, more thick, more angry.

"Hey dude," Stan said, clapping Kenny on the shoulder. How could Stan just ignore those scars? Kyle couldn't look away.

"What the hell happened?" asked Kyle.

Kenny replied, "My parents were fighting. I guess my dad shoved my mom and she hit the edge of their bed and like took a lamp down with her and cut her head open. She's okay, I guess, but they're pumping her stomach now. She was that drunk. At ten _fucking_ AM. Jesus, I hate my parents."

"So what did you need us for, dude?" Stan asked.

"I need a ride home," said Kenny, voice flat. He paused pacing for a moment and turned to Stan, "Wait, what the fuck time is it?"

"Like three thirty, dude, why?" Stan responded, glancing at his watch.

Kenny ran both hands through his hair exasperatedly, "Damn it. Damn it all. I need to get back home. Karen's gonna come home from school, and nobody will be there, and she's gonna be hungry, and she'll look in the fridge like I used to and see nothing but beer, and-,"

"Kenny. Chill. We'll get you home, dude," Stan said, "C'mon, let's get the fuck out of here. I can't fucking stand hospitals. They smell too clean."

Just as soon as Kyle and Stan had come, they left with Kenny, who forgot to return his scrubs, and was now struggling to take them off in the passenger seat. Kyle had been downgraded to the cramped backseat of the truck.

"Here, let me help," he said, moving Kenny's hands aside. Kyle undid the ties on the back of the scrubs. Scrubs were always ugly, but this set was particularly so. It was a color someplace between teal and white, patterned with maroon flowers. It seemed like hospitals purposely sought out the ugliest fabrics known to man, or at least so Kyle believed.

"Thanks," Kenny mumbled. He turned to Stan and managed, "And thanks for the ride, dude."

"We got your back, dude," was all that Stan said in reply, "but don't blame me if Wendy's pissed at you. We were supposed to go to the movies and I ditched that for this."

"Wendy's always pissed at me for something," Kenny answered. He'd started using his tongue to play with his lip ring again, Kyle noticed. He always noticed.

Before Stan could even park his truck in front of the McCormick house, Kenny threw open the passenger door and leapt from the vehicle, parading into his house. Stan didn't even have the truck in park before Kenny disappeared.

"Karen? You home?" he called.

"Kenny!" his younger sister exclaimed.

Kyle looked on as Kenny said, "Here. I saved this for you," and pulled a sort of squished Snickers from his pocket, handing it over. Karen said nothing, but instead scampered off with the treat and hid, like a scavenging animal.

Stan grumbled in the doorway, staring down at his phone. He said, "Hey, look, I've gotta go. Wendy's upset. Are you okay to walk home, Kyle? Or what?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Kyle dismissed. Stan closed the front door.

As the sound of ignition announced Stan's departure, Kyle and Kenny stared at each other for awhile. Neither said anything, and both were hoping that the other would initiate conversation.

"I'm gay," blurted Kyle.

Kenny squinted at his friend, "No _fucking way._ Oh _dear God. The guy I made out with is gay_!" he sarcastically quipped, "Of course you're fucking gay, dickwad."

"Is it that obvious?" asked Kyle.

"To me, yeah. But I'd like to think I'm pretty damn good at reading people's sexuality. I'm not good at much, but that's one thing I know I can do," Kenny said, "I'm just good at sex. And smoking, I guess." Kenny chuckled at his own words, and then moved in a little closer to Kyle.

Kyle couldn't move, as Kenny reached up and twirled a lock of red hair around his finger. Kenny murmured, "This is so…pretty. I never thought I'd hear myself calling a dude pretty, but you are." Kenny, who was shorter than Kyle's 6'1 by an inch and a half, leaned up, just slightly, and kissed his best friend. Kyle found that his body moved of its own accord, following instructions not from Kyle's brain but from his libido. He opened his mouth under the pressure of Kenny's lips, and ran his hands down Kenny's back.

Kenny could make his tongue do things that Kyle didn't know were possible. Kenny was right. He was good at sex. But this wasn't even sex yet. This was just preliminary. Oh God. Kyle's heart palpitated, squeezing hard, as if somebody's fist held it tightly and wouldn't let go.

Kenny unzipped Kyle's jacket and tossed it aside on the weathered carpet. The t-shirt that Kyle wore underneath it quickly followed. For a moment, Kenny withdrew, scraping his eye's over Kyle's torso like the redhead was a rich buffet for the taking.

"I was right," Kenny smiled.

"Right about what?"

"How pretty you are," Kenny said. Without any further explanation, he pushed Kyle backward so that he would sit on the couch. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but Kyle didn't care, as he noticed that Kenny had gotten down to his knees in front of him.

"What about your sister?" whispered Kyle.

Kenny said, "Who cares? Maybe she'll learn something useful."

With adept hands, Kenny unfastened the button on Kyle's jeans, unzipping the fly at a pace that was painfully slow. Kenny stroked Kyle's erection through his boxers with one hand, before reaching beneath the waistband and gripping what he sought.

Kyle sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth. He moaned, "Shit, Kenny."

"We haven't even gotten to the good part yet," Kenny chuckled.

Kenny bent his head down.

He licked along the bottom of Kyle's shaft, before taking the head into his mouth. Kyle gasped, and groaned, and took a fistful of blond hair into his hand. At first, Kenny was slow and attentive, taking his time and swirling his tongue on every inch he could. But, as Kyle began to pant and tug at Kenny's hair, Kenny quickened the pace, deepened the intake. Where the fuck had Kenny learned to give a blow job like this?

"Kenny! Kenny- I-I'm gonna-,"

Kyle came with a long, satisfied groan. His grip on Kenny's hair loosened. Through heavy lidded eyes, Kyle watched Kenny resurface, and the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed Kyle's semen. Kenny smirked at his best friend.

"That's not all, Kyle Broflovski," the blond said. The smirk turned into a grin.

**o.o.o.o**

** Many thanks to TheNerds and KirstenTheDestroyer (who is my best friend 4 lyfeee). You guys make me so happy, and happy Scarlett likes writing more K2. :D**


	8. We Set Fire in the Snow

**Chapter Track: I'm Not Done – Fever Ray**

Oh God, Kyle thought, and he felt his heart lurch.

"You look a little nervous, Kyle," murmured Kenny. The blond sidled up and straddled Kyle's lap. He ran his tongue along Kyle's throat and whispered, "Don't worry. I know how to make people feel good."

Kyle took Kenny's shoulders in his hands and moved the boy back slightly, "That's not what I'm worried about. We're best friends, dude. Wouldn't this like change everything?"

Kenny rolled his eyes, "I just blew you, and _now_ you're worried about our friendship? Holy shit, Kyle."

Kyle ran a hand through Kenny's hair as he considered this. He was right, of course. Ever since their childhood, whenever something sex-related came up, Kenny knew anything and everything about it. After a lifetime of saying, "That's gross, Kenny," and later discovering whatever his friend had said was true, Kyle realized his own naiveté. Okay, so now whenever Kenny was around, he felt his stomach knot up. No butterflies or any wimpy-ass shit like that, just like he was tangled up everywhere. And lust. That didn't make Kyle feel unique. He wasn't special. Kenny inspired lust in pretty much everybody. It was a talent.

"Yeah, alright. You're right," Kyle admitted. When Kenny bent into to resume foreplay, or whatever they were doing, Kyle held him back again. Kenny lifted one brow, as if to say, _What now, Kyle?_ Kyle explained, "I want to try. You know. To make you feel good."

Kenny looked surprised. He said, "Isn't that just fucking considerate?" he asked, sounding sarcastic, but Kyle knew that Kenny at least appreciated the sentiment.

Kyle craned his neck and pressed a shy kiss to Kenny's neck. It was weird—Kenny had this distinct smell to him, not bad, but not really good, either. He smelled like guy. He smelled warm. Kyle kissed a scar he found, just behind Kenny's ear, and drew the tip of his tongue experimentally across it. Kenny made a soft noise in his throat, and his hands drifted back down to Kyle's dick, which during this interlude, had begun to harden again.

Making small noises of pleasure, Kenny at last said, "Okay. Okay. Let's go to my room."

In one fluid movement, Kenny stood and yanked Kyle to his feet. For a moment it felt like they were kids again, as they pounded up the stairs, like they were running to make sure they got to see the newest episode of Terrance & Phillip in time.

Kenny slammed his bedroom door behind him. He pushed Kyle backwards onto the frameless mattress that he slept on. Kenny wheezed, "I know you said you're not a virgin, but I don't believe you. So I'm gonna try and be nice, but it's gonna fucking hurt okay?"

Before Kyle could respond, Kenny covered his body with his own, smothering his mouth in a heated kiss. Kyle moaned and tugged at the waistband of Kenny's holed jeans, trying to indicate without breaking their contact that he wanted the last of their clothing _gone._ Kenny knocked Kyle's hand away and undid the fastenings himself, kicking off the denim as he moved down to circle Kyle's nipple with the rough pad of his tongue.

In many heated movements, the rest of their clothing founds its way to the floor. Kenny licked and nipped and made Kyle shiver, but when Kyle tried to return the favor of pleasure Kenny just whisper, "No, no. Not yet." Kenny stuck his fingers in his mouth, and commanded, "You need to relax, okay, Kyle?"

Kyle nodded and stilled, but kept his hands splayed on Kenny's scarred back. The blond moved down so that his face hovered just between Kyle's thighs, and his elbows rested in the mattress. A fleeting thought crossed Kyle's mind—that he had never seen Kenny so focused on anything before, except perhaps video games—before Kenny slid one finger inside him.

"O-Oh," Kyle released a shaking breath. The sensation was good, but foreign, and he had to force himself to relax again as Kenny added a second finger. Kenny rotated and twisted his fingers rhythmically. Every so often he would ply deeper inside Kyle, causing a gasp as the redhead became used to the stretching pain. When Kenny inserted a third finger, Kyle lost it. He groaned and shook and pressed his perfectly clipped fingernails into Kenny's back (which didn't seem to bother him at all, leading Kyle to believe that Kenny had had many a hand clawing into his back).

"Shh," Kenny mumbled, nipping at Kyle's ear, "this'll make it easier, okay?"

"'Kay," Kyle moaned.

One hand still working Kyle, Kenny extended his reach over to his dresser and pulled open the sock drawer. From it, he drew a small bottle of Astroglide. Kenny squeezed to dollop of lube onto his dick and covered himself with it.

Kenny breathed, "Get ready."

He entered Kyle with a single, fluid thrust. Kyle let out a strangled half-sob. It hurt, but, he loved it. He hadn't ever felt so close to somebody in his life. Kenny stayed inside him for a few seconds, letting Kyle become used to their connected bodies, before withdrawing halfway and reentering Kyle's body.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Kyle," Kenny sighed, and Kyle whimpered.

They both began to mutter things neither could understand, except for when either shouted the other's name or ground out a curse. Kenny began slowly, being unusually patient and gentle. But, as soon as he judged that he'd stretched Kyle enough, he got rougher, faster and more precise in his movement. Kyle lifted his hips to meet Kenny's with each thrust in, and each pull back.

Kenny surged forward with a cry, and finally, came inside his best friend—now lover.

For awhile, the pair simply laid like that, with Kenny on top of Kyle, his hands planted on either side of Kyle's head, before Kenny eased away. His head hit the pillow beside Kyle as the two tried to catch their breath.

"Kenny?"

"This is going to be pussy-ass pillow talk, is it?" Kenny asked. It seemed that he had come back to himself, again.

"No. I was gonna ask you about your scars. If you really meant it. About dying all the time," Kyle said. He rolled onto his other side so that he and Kenny lay face to face, with their noses barely touching at the tips.

Kenny started to play with his lip ring. He answered shortly, "Yup."

Kyle ran a finger along one of the thinner scars on Kenny's torso. He queried, "What's this one from?"

Kenny looked down and replied, "I think that one's from when the leader of the cult of Cthulhu stabbed me in an alley way, but that could be that one over there…" he trailed off, staring at his own scars, "…weird."

"What's weird?" asked Kyle.

"I thought I'd be satisfied after I fucked you once, but now I just want to fuck you again," Kenny stated bluntly.

"Okay, well you'll have to wait until my ass isn't sore anymore," Kyle quipped. As much as he disliked admitting it, his feelings hurt a bit. He had to be more than just a fuck, right? He and Kenny were best friends. Was this what people meant when they said that sex always ruined friendships?

"Christ, angry, are we?" Kenny asked, "It wasn't that bad, was it?" He reached over Kyle and to his dresser again, this time returning his hand with his cigarettes and lighter in tow. Kenny lit one and sucked in, smiling a small smile as the sensation of nicotine washed over him.

Kyle responded, "No. It was. Well. Amazing."

"Amazing, huh? Shit, that must be one of the best reviews I've gotten yet. I knew there was a reason I wanted to screw you so much," Kenny smirked. Somehow, this expression, combined with the cigarette dangling between his lips and his sex-mussed, self-cut blond hair, made him look the sexiest that Kyle had ever seen. The sexiest he had seen anybody, ever. Kenny went on, "Kyle, dude, I gotta tell you, you can't get feelings involved in this, okay? I don't do feelings. You know that. But we have great sex together, yeah?"

Kyle would be lying if he said that he didn't feel a little put out. Instead of saying that he said, "I know dude. We'll the most epic fucking friends with benefits ever. Way better than that Natalie Portman bullshit."

Kenny laughed and kissed Kyle, "Fuck yes. I knew you'd get it. You wanna go over to your place and play some Super Smash Brothers?"

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my reviewers, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, lithiium, KirstenTheDestroyer, and TheNerds. I love you guys!**


	9. Believe What You See

**Chapter Track: Monsters - Matchbook Romance**

Kenny returned to the school with little ado at all. It felt kind of like he had died—nobody had even noticed that he had been gone. He was perhaps not as thoroughly admonished as Principal Victoria would have liked, but he'd been punished enough that his tolerance for Cartman's bullshit was restored to impressive levels. Not that Kenny typically reacted to Cartman's antics in the same way that his friends did (yelling matches that ended with Cartman still thinking he was right). He'd just have to refrain from lighting the guy on fire again. Which was harder than it sounded.

Kenny tried to attend all his classes. He was decent at math and above average in certain sciences if he allowed himself to be. It was English that he hated (he didn't understand how Kyle could enjoy reading so much), and the electives that the school forced them to take that he felt were a waste of his time. He wasn't even going to go anyplace with this education. He didn't know why he bothered.

"Hey Bebe," Kenny said, sliding his books beside hers in the cafeteria, where she was (presumably) on her off period, and he was ditching fourth period art class.

She glanced up from whatever she'd been concentrating on and said, "Oh. Hey Kenny. Where have you been? You like vanished off the face of the earth."

Kenny felt his brows lift into his matted blond hair. He said, "I lit Cartman on fire. You were there."

Bebe laughed, "Riiiight."

"Why the fuck did you tell him to 'stop, drop and roll,' anyway? He could have done with a little more damage, I think," Kenny said. Why was he sober right now, he wondered? He'd considered getting baked before he'd walked to the bus stop, but had reconsidered when he realized that he might be late if he did so.

Bebe shrugged, "I was joking. Cartman never listens to me. But at least I still get to give him shit for it."

"Fucking right on," Kenny approved, "anything that pisses him off is funny as shit to me."

He and Bebe bantered on for awhile. He was generally okay with Bebe. She level-headed and admittedly smarter than he was, but most importantly, she had the most beautiful tits in all of South Park. She used to hate them. He knew, because he'd paid so much attention to them over the years, right from when they'd first appeared in fourth grade. In middle school, she used to snap at him when she caught him staring, but had come to tolerate him. Enough to sleep with him, anyway. Kenny attributed this change of heart to his dashing good looks. Or, his access to weed. Or maybe the size of his cock.

Fuck it, he had no idea why Bebe spoke to him. But he liked that she did. She was different than Wendy, who was always pissed off at Kenny for saying something offensive. Sure, he understood that politics were important to her, but he just didn't have the energy to get as interested in the issues. Stan did. Stan had even gone to some thing that summer called the 'Slutwalk' in downtown Denver. Kenny had wanted to join them, but Wendy had been strictly opposed to his attending the event, saying something along the lines of, "He just wants to see a bunch of people dressed in next to nothing, Stan. He's not fucking going, blah blah blah blah blah." Where did that chick get her energy, anyway?

Outside, the town's tornado sirens sounded.

"What the fuck?" Kenny heard Token say from across the cafeteria.

"Wasn't it, like, stupidly fucking sunny like five minutes ago?" Bebe wondered aloud.

"Yeah, I was just out smoking," Kenny said.

He and Bebe exchanged a similar, knowing glance. Bebe remarked, "I wonder what the fuck kind of weird shit is happening _now_?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna find Kyle and Stan," Kenny announced, standing. He didn't think he'd survive whatever bullshit was happening now, but he'd probably come back and be fine. But to be safe, he'd rather be with his friends.

In the hallways, students filed out of classrooms in typical tornado-drill style (even though Kenny was fairly certain that most people knew that the sirens did not mean that a tornado had hit South Park). He spotted a blue and green hat all the way down at the end—thank you, 20/20 vision.

"Kyle! Stan!"

His friends turned around and saw him, and moved to meet up, going against the current of the crowd.

"What the fuck do you think is going on, dude?" asked Stan.

"I dunno," replied Kenny, "but I know I don't want to be here when we find out what the hell it is. I say we make a break for it, see for ourselves."

The trio tried to make themselves inconspicuous as they walked in the opposite direction of the other students of South Park High. They edged toward one of the side doors, rather than the front, fearing that whatever had invaded South Park this time would be right outside. An irrational fear, perhaps, but it was better safe than sorry in situations such as these. They'd dealt with them since their primary years. The boys had become fairly skilled at handing the freaky and anomalous.

"Hold on," said Stan, putting out an arm to stop the other two from walking off, "I have my baseball bat in my locker. We might need that shit. We should get it." Upon Kyle and Kenny agreeing that that was not a half-bad idea to have themselves armed.

When they made it outside, it was, unsurprising, still as sunny as Kenny remembered it being when he'd gone out to smoke. It was also eerily quiet, which was strange. For being such a small town, South Park always seemed to have some hubbub going on, somebody shouting, somebody off their rocker running through the streets, or children doing something stupid (at one point, that had been them. Now, they were teenagers doing something stupid).

"Dude, this isn't good," Kyle said, glancing back at Kenny, who flashed him a bit of a wicked smile, without saying anything.

That was when, amid the silence, there was an inhuman roar that pierced the sky.

"Oh, Jesus. Not fucking aliens, _again_," Stan complained, "Come on, let's make sure our parents aren't doing something fucking stupid." The unspoken end of the sentence was "again."

They marched quickly down the sidewalk, toward the center of town, where it seemed the commotion was coming from. The closer the boys got, the louder the alien-freak-strange noise became, peppered with screams. Stan lead them, with his metal bat resting on the shoulder of his brown Volcom hoodie. Kenny found himself wishing that he had his father's shotgun, because he'd rather not die today. But it was probably going to. Whenever something weird struck South Park he was generally the sacrifice.

Kyle touched Kenny's hand, just lightly, and asked, "Hey, are you alright, dude?"

"I'm going to die today," sighed Kenny.

While wearing a look of concern, Kyle replied uncertainly, "But, you always come back, right?"

This made Kenny smile. Since Stan wasn't looking, he gave Kyle a quick kiss on the lips and said, "Right."

There, in the center of South Park, was a massive being. A massive, ugly, slimy being. The closest earth creature that it resembled was probably a squid, if squids had metal-plated tentacles and were bright puce. A few mere yards away, Randy Marsh was lighting debris on fire and throwing it at the creature. Every time it was struck by fire, it bellowed out the piercing scream that they'd heard all the way back at their school.

"Dad, what the hell's going on?" asked Stan, jogging up to his father.

Randy paused his burning-and-throwing, "Stanley, aren't you supposed to be in school?"

Kenny scowled. His parents never gave a fuck about that, and here was a gargantuan monster, and Mr. Marsh still cared.

"The tornado sirens went off at school," Stan explained, sounding impatient, "I figured something was wrong."

For whatever reason, this seemed to satisfy Randy. Stan tossed his bat at the creature's head and called, "Fuck off!"

The leviathan let one, swooping tentacle fall near the Marshes, landing on top one of the other citizens that had been throwing debris in an attempt to fight off the creature. Blood splattered, covering all of them.

"Fucking sick," grimaced Stan.

Kyle made a noise of disgust.

Kenny was used to being covered in blood. But this method wasn't going to work—it never did, but South Park never seemed to figure that out. Kenny heaved a sigh and cracked his knuckles. He winked at Kyle and said, "See you tomorrow, dude."

Kenny strode up to the beast, so that he stood a few feet in front of it.

"Hey, asshole," he said.

"Kenny, get back here," called Stan, "You're going to get yourself killed."

"He knows that, Stan," Kenny heard Kyle say, and he appreciated that attitude. Kyle seemed to be coming around. Maybe sex shut him up, or something.

Kenny continued to talk to the alien-monster-beast-thing, and said, "Look, dude. Just stop killing people, okay? Okay."

The beast replied to this with a swish of his metal-plated tentacles.

"I'm afraid that won't be happening, Kinny."

And that's about when everything came together. Atop the thing sat Cartman. That morning in first period they'd been told that Cartman was out with the flu, but it made far more sense that he would be sitting on top of an unknown monster, trying to kill people. A _lot_ more sense.

"Oh, come the fuck on, fatass," Kenny sighed, "what is it this time?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ," he heard Stan remark.

"You see, Kinny, I wanted to get you back for being a total douchebag, but I decided, why stop at a stupid redneck dickwad, when I could get the whole asshole town?" Cartman rambled. Even from Kenny's stance on the ground, at least a good twenty feet below where Cartman had perched himself on the beast, he could the fucker's smug expression. Kenny put his face in his hands, and ran one of them through his tangled hair. Maybe he should invest in a comb.

"How did you even pull this bullshit off, Cartman?" asked Kenny. I mean, even in Southpark, there had to at least be a fucking _reason_ that a gigantic squid-thing had appeared the middle of the town, even if Cartman was behind it.

"I summoned him," Cartman said haughtily, "the goth kids helped."

Anyone that had heard that revelation slid a sideways glance at the quartet of black-clad teenagers.

"What?" defended Henrietta, "He's only killing a bunch of conformists."

Kenny had no idea how many times he had rolled his eyes that day, but this was likely the biggest eyeroller of them all. You'd think that they'd get a better fucking hobby, Kenny thought. But then he realized—while they all were having this leisurely conversation, as if nothing strange at all was going on, the monster-thing wasn't killing or destroying anything. Oh, no.

Oh, great. Oh, fuck. The thing was one of those damned "gentle giants," and Kenny had a feeling that it didn't really want to hurt anybody. He guessed that the only reason it was attacking was because Cartman had a knife or some shit, and then there'd been that Mr. Marsh had been throwing flaming shit at it.

"Guys," Kenny turned back to the small, blood-spattered crowd, "I'm pretty certain that it doesn't actually hurt anybody without being provoked. Cartman's just a douche. As usual."

"Fuck yew, Kinny!" shouted Cartman. He did something, maybe stuck the beast with a knife, or jabbed it. But whatever Cartman did pissed it off enough that the squid-thing roared, and slammed down his tentacle, directly toward Kenny. Well, Kenny thought, this is going to hurt.

**o.o.o.o**

The first thing Kenny did when he woke up on his usual mattress was light a cigarette. He was a bit stiff, though his new organs felt nice and in order. One benefit of constantly dying, he thought, was that no matter how avidly he chain smoked, he couldn't get lung cancer. He checked the time on his clock. He'd been out for around five hours.

Kenny wondered what had happened with the squid-thing downtown.

He took up his cell. There was a text from Kyle.

"_Dude, where were you today? Cartman pulled the biggest dick move"_

Kenny texted back, "_slept n got hi."_

"_The fuck you did."_

Surely Kyle didn't remember Kenny's death.

"_wat do u mean_?" Kenny texted.

"_I wrote it on my hand this time. You died. And now you're fine. This is fucking with my head man. I can't remember you dying, but I can't remember writing it on my hand either. It must have happened."_

He'd written it on his hand? Okay, so Kyle didn't _actually_ remember, but it's the thought that counts, right? Until now, the only person that believed Kenny about his curse was South Park's mortician.

Maybe this was where his insatiable need to sleep with Kyle came from. Sure, Kyle was weirdly pretty for a dude, but he also…

Well, really fucking nice. Maybe "nice" was a stupid thing to call somebody, but that's what Kyle Broflovski was. He'd given Kenny the benefit of the doubt, even though Kenny's claim that he couldn't die did sound impossible when spoken aloud.

Feeling strangely warm, Kenny settled back in his pillow, lit a second cigarette, and smiled.

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay, I know there isn't much K2 happening in this chapter, but I did want this story to be a little bit more than just smut. Thanks to those that reviewed, TheNerds, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, and TheAwesome15. You guys are wonderful, and you make me feel so special. :D**


	10. Final Shot Strike

**Chapter Track: Paper Float – Cassettes Won't Listen**

"So then they let Cartman go, as long as he promised not to ever try and massacre the whole town using ancient black magic," explained Kyle, as he pulled his clothing back on. Kenny hadn't bothered to dress yet. He was still finishing his post-sex cigarette.

Kenny replied, "You'd think people would realize that Cartman's just going to find something new and stupid to pull next time."

"You would, wouldn't you? But I think Cartman's mom has slept with so many of the dudes in this town, that Cartman can kind of do whatever he wants to," Kyle reasoned. He pulled up his jeans. He felt weird wearing nice clothes at Kenny's house. It had never bothered him before, but when he looked from Kenny's faded and torn jeans, piled on the carpet, to the designer pair that his mother had bought him in Denver, Kyle felt kind of guilty.

"Dude, even I've slept with Cartman's mom," Kenny said.

"What? Oh, that's sick, dude," Kyle grimaced.

"She's _hot_, dude," Kenny said, "but that was like three years ago, and it was only a couple times. And it was only to piss Cartman off, anyway." Kenny chuckled fondly at the thought. He frowned at Kyle's disgusted look and said, "Come on, dude. Don't be all prude."

"You fucked Cartman's mom when you were fourteen? That is so wrong," Kyle gaped at Kenny, unable to believe what he was hearing. When had Kenny told them that he'd lost his virginity, anyway? It had been _very_ early on, it seemed, or at least it had to Kyle, who at the time couldn't wrap his mind around the concept of sex, let alone _having_ sex. Kyle thought that Kenny had maybe been twelve, and had slept with an older girl at a rave that Kevin had taken him to, in Denver.

Kenny's eyes crinkled at the corners as a smirky half-grin flooded his face. He said, "Kyle, you know very well that I'm a whore."

"It kind of bothers me when you call yourself shit like that, dude," Kyle replied, pulling his Andrew Bird t-shirt over his head.

"That's touching, Kyle, but what else am I supposed to call myself? Slut? Ho? Tramp? Jezebel?" Kenny almost chortled out the last one. Where did that even come from? It might have been that Kyle had pressured him to at least attempt to do his English homework. Shakespeare was an interesting experience if one dropped acid directly before reading. And by that, Kenny meant that he had no idea what had been going on.

Kyle's face reddened, and he rubbed the back of his neck before he managed to stammer out, "You're just more than that, dude. I mean, if you're slut, you're a slut, I guess. But you're also my best friend and I don't think you're _just_ a whore or whatever."

"That's nice, Kyle. But I'm not your best friend. Stan is your best friend," Kenny said, "Look, one of us was trying to protect you, and the other is fucking you. "

"Come on, Kenny, don't give me that self-pity bullshit. You know we're best friends. We always have been."

Kenny suddenly felt uncomfortable with having this discussion while his bits and pieces were hanging out in the open. He located the boxers he'd been wearing and returned them to their place on his hips. There was a hole in the front that he hadn't noticed before. He ground out, feeling oddly sore at Kyle's accusation, "You know what, Kyle? Fuck off. You didn't even believe me about my deaths until two goddamn days ago. People don't notice me, you know? I'm like background noise. Oh, Jesus, fuck this." Kenny threw open his sock drawer and pulled out a plastic baggie of pills.

"What the fuck are those?"

"Crack."

"In pill form?" asked Kyle.

"I'm pretty innovative, huh?" Kenny reached into the back, extracted two tablets and held them between his fingers, before placing them side by side on his tongue.

"Dude," was all that Kyle said, "That's…wow. I don't even know what to fucking say to you right now."

Kenny gave a dismissive wave of his hand and said, laying back on his bed with his hands behind his head, "I deal drugs, Kyle. I have gratuitous amounts of unprotected, depraved sex. I'll do pretty much anything for money. I have no future. If that wasn't clear to you by now, I don't know what fucking fantasy land you've been living in, but you should invite me."

"Wow," Kyle repeated, "Just wow, Kenny. I'll leave you to that, then, shall I?" And he was gone.

Kenny was already high, so he didn't care.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny didn't show up for school the next day.

Nor did he show up for school the day after that. Or the one after that. Or after that, until it was the weekend, and genuine concern arose. With a couple of 7-11 slushies in hand, Stan and Kyle walked to their friend's house. To the entire town's relief, September had brought a slight coolness to the air, and they were all free to don hats and scarves and coats as normally they would.

"I had sex with him," Kyle confessed, as soon as the bell at the automatic front doors of the 7-11 announced their departure.

Stan eyed his friend and finally commented, "I thought you might have."

"I'm gay, Stan," Kyle said.

Stan took a sip of his slushie, gazing at Kyle over his drink. He replied, "I know, dude. I started wondering awhile ago. Like, when you turned Sally down when she asked you to the eighth grade formal when we were thirteen."

Kyle didn't think that Stan would mind if he was gay, but he hadn't been expecting that Stan had known for such a long period of time. Or suspected, at least. "Really? That obvious, huh?"

"A little, dude, yeah," Stan said, "and for the record, it doesn't matter to me, okay? Wendy thought you might be gay, too. She's excited to have a gay friend."

"You should inform her that I'm not some sort of novelty," Kyle quipped, speaking more sharply than he had intended.

"I know you're not, man," Stan assured Kyle, squeezing his friend's shoulder.

"For some reason, saying that seemed like it would be harder than it actually was," Kyle mumbled. He sipped thoughtfully on his slushie, which kind of tasted gross, now that he thought of it. Something about the sugar and artificial flavoring was just wrong…but he thought that sounded stupid, so he drank more of the beverage.

"Honestly, Kyle, I don't think anybody here would have a huge problem with it. Well, I suppose there are Kenny's parents, but they kind of have their own special category."

Yeah, the McCormicks _did_ have their own special category. Kyle hated them. They were, and always had been, particularly horrible people. Once, when they were little, Kyle recalled Kenny asking if he could go out with Stan and him and Cartman, and Stuart threw a beer bottle at Kenny's head and told him to get out of the way of the television. That had scared the fuck out of Kyle. At the time, he was only around eight, and hadn't even known that anybody's parents had the capacity to be that…well, mean.

For all that, he didn't think that the McCormicks were cruel. They weren't smart enough to be cruel, quite frankly. Kenny's parents truly were just messed up alcoholics.

At the same time, that wasn't really a comforting thought, either.

Kyle found that he was still pissed at Kenny for Tuesday's incident. The fact that he was still mad just made him angrier, though that was more at himself than at Kenny. _I'm a whore,_ Kenny had shrugged, as if saying, "_It's common knowledge, Kyle, and you should just grow up._" Why did Kenny's self-criticism bother Kyle so much? Kenny had been doing it for some years now—probably since they'd hit puberty, if Kyle had to put a date on it. Everybody else seemed to be fine with it. Everybody else shrugged off perverted Kenny McCormick. Why couldn't Kyle shrug this off? It had to be the sex, Kyle thought. Why else would he have suddenly started caring?

Kenny thought there was nothing to care about. That people didn't care about him and that they shouldn't start caring about him. "I don't do feelings," was what he'd said directly after he'd taken Kyle's v-card. Maybe the reason Kenny "didn't do feelings" was because he was too high most of the time to realize that he in fact had the capacity for feelings. Kyle was certain that Kenny did. Even people like Craig, who didn't seem to give a shit about anything, had feelings. Even if they were feelings that usually constituted being annoyed with people or flipping them off.

So, yeah. The past few days worried Kyle. Maybe he'd been too much of a dick the last time he'd been too much of a dick the last time he'd seen Kenny. But Kenny didn't just avoid people like the plague. That wasn't Kenny's style at all. He was a blunt, confrontational bastard, and there was very little that could keep him away from fucking around with his best friends. Or pissing off Cartman, and Kenny's very presence seemed to piss of Cartman, as of late.

"You okay, dude?" Stan frowned at Kyle. Kyle stared back at him, without saying anything at first. Stan was wearing a Greenpeace t-shirt, and his usual red-and-blue knit hat. Same old friendly, athletic Stan. Maybe Kyle really should just leave Kenny alone. Stan sure as fuck wouldn't get into drugs and use crack as a proverbial "fuck you."

"Jesus, Kyle," Stan said, snapping his fingers in front of Kyle's face, "dude, you really zoned out there. Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," Kyle sighed, and he was. Sort of. "I'm just worried about Kenny, you know? I mean, I know I pissed him off last time I saw him, but he pissed me off, too. And you know how he is. He'd go out of his way to piss me off more until we forgave each other. Instead he just disappears."

"That's nothing new, though," Stan pointed out.

Okay, another fair point. Maybe Kenny had gone traipsing off on one of his adventures and hadn't bothered telling anybody. That sure as hell had happened before. Kyle would be relieved if this is what that was. But for whatever reason, he didn't think that's what Kenny was up to. Kyle may have not been the most intuitive guy, but he felt like he knew his friends well. Did screwing somebody count as you knowing them better than another person? Because sometimes he did feel as though he got Kenny more than Stan could.

"Do you think that he's just fucking around?" asked Kyle.

Stan shook his head, "Actually, I don't know, man. I've got a shitty feeling about this whole thing."

They jogged across the train tracks together. Kyle wondered why he hadn't ever noticed the condition of Kenny's neighborhood before. There were more than a few ragged homeless people shuffling around, and a starving stray cat leapt out at them when they passed by the trash bin it had perched itself upon. The streets were trashed. Kenny's front lawn was uncut and covered with prickly-looking weeds. No Home Owner's Association for these people, he guessed.

Stan rang the doorbell beside the McCormick's front door.

"It doesn't work, dude," Kyle reminded him, and knocked.

Carol opened the door. She mumbled incoherently, "Oh, iz Kenny's little friends. He's upstairs with his girlfriend."

That made Kyle's stomach lurch and his heart jump up into his throat. Stan noticed the expression on his face and commented under his breath, "I told you that you shouldn't have gotten involved with him, dude."

"Fuck off," Kyle muttered back.

Cautiously, they enter the McCormick house and traversed up the rickety stairs. Even from the other end of the hallway, they could hear the commotion from Kenny's bedroom. There were feminine moans, and the floor beneath their shoes shook slightly. But, what Kyle thought hurt his feelings the most was Kenny's voice. Between the cries of the anonymous woman, Kenny tossed in a soft curse or a grunt. Like he did when he and Kyle had fucked each other.

Kyle and Stan just stood there, at the top of the stairs, both with eyes focused like laser beams on Kenny's bedroom door, like they were looking right through the Playboy poster Kenny had taped to it and onto whatever debauchery was going on inside. It all matched so terribly. _I thought I'd be satisfied after I fucked you once_, Kenny had mentioned, so casually. But that was just it. Kyle had been some stupid fucking conquest, and in truth, Kenny just like hot chick with huge racks. Like Bebe, who was tan and athletic and had the breasts of Aphrodite. Kyle was pale and slender and, well, a dude.

Finally, Stan placed his hand on Kyle's shoulder. He said, gently, "Kyle, we definitely don't want to go in there. Let's go and skip rocks at Stark's Pond or something, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Kyle said, not at all surprised by what he was hearing from Kenny's bedroom, but entirely wounded. You should have known better, Broflovski, he told himself, but that didn't do anything to cheer him up, and he just began to feel worse. They left their empty 7-11 slushie cups at the top of Kenny's stairs, figuring nobody in the family would notice the difference, since none of them were sober anyway.

"See you later, Mrs. McCormick," Stan said, out of his need to always be polite.

"Huh?" was her only response, which she uttered without glancing away from her whiskey glass or the television, which was playing some stupid commercial for a kitchen product that nobody fucking needed.

Stan steered Kyle away from Kenny's house and out of the sordid neighborhood, like a mother directs a child through a crowded place, since Kyle seemed to be having trouble moving his limbs by himself.

**o.o.o.o**

By some miracle, no other wandering teenagers had decided to congregate at Stark's Pond, and so the entire place was left to Stan and Kyle.

"Are you going to be okay?" Stan asked his best friend. With an expert flick of his wrist, Stan flung a rock out across the water. One, two, three…"Six skips. Sweet."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Kyle said, voice quiet. Instead of joining Stan in rock-skipping, he'd laid down in the grass, body stretched out with his hands resting behind his head. He was trying to pay attention to Stan, to assure the guy that he would be alright. Who needed Kenny anyway? The guy had always been a bit of a bastard. He was no Cartman, but he wasn't exactly Mr. Nice Guy, was he?

Stan's thick brows hitched, the corners of his lips turning down as he looked at Kyle. He said, "It's okay to be upset, man. I get it. You really liked the guy. He's always been a bit of a bastard, though, hasn't he? We don't need him."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Kyle muttered, though his feelings weren't cooperating with his brain. Why was it, precisely, that when situations such as these arose, that heart and mind just couldn't get along? It was fucking annoying. And pathetic. Just so fucking pathetic.

Stan tossed another stone out across the water. Only three skips, this time.

"I'd give you the 'there are other fish in the sea' speech, but that seems a little faggy, so I'm just going to tell you that Kenny's a dick and you deserve somebody that has feelings like a normal human being," Stan tried reassuring him.

Kyle sat up, then, crossing his legs. He took up his own rock and heaved it out to the water with all his might. It didn't skip at all, just hit the surface, rippling, and then sank out of sight.

"That's…not how you do it, dude," Stan said hesitantly.

"I fucking know that, Stan," Kyle replied acidly, and found himself irritated when he glanced up and saw a look of understanding gracing Stan's stupid face.

Stan reached out with another rock to skip, when his phone went off. The ringtone was 'Girls' by the Beastie Boys. Wendy's ringtone (she hated it).

Stan flipped his phone open, his hand with the rock clutched in it lowering to his side, "Hey Wendy. Now's not the best time. Kyle's having a shitty day, so we're hanging out at Stark's Pond." There was the muffled noise of Wendy's voice on the other line, and Stan answered, "That's probably not a good idea. I know. I'm sorry. I can call you later tonight and we'll figure it out, alright?"

Stan hung up his phone and explained, "She wanted to join us, but that kind of didn't seem right."

"She mad?"

"Nah. Wendy's more even-tempered than people give her credit for," said Stan. He dropped the stone he'd been holding in the grass and dropped down to sit beside Kyle.

They just sat, in silence, really. It seemed like Stan had realized that Kyle wasn't going to be comforted by trite words, and that just having Stan around was enough, at least for awhile.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny peeled the condom off of himself and tossed it in the direction of his overflowing trashcan. He didn't think he'd made the shot, but that was okay.

Who had he just slept with? He didn't even know. Crack + acid = his mind doing weird ass shit to him. It was pretty awesome weird ass shit, but he still had no idea what was going on.

But he just felt so good. Maybe it didn't matter that he couldn't figure out what the fuck was real and what was in his own head. He felt good. Really good. And that was all mattered to Kenny.

**o.o.o.o**

**Here, enjoy this depressing, longer-than-usual chapter. Many thanks to my reviewers: InstruMental, Little Loki 2.0, TheNerds, and TheAwesome15. You guys are fabulous. If you have any constructive crit, don't be shy. :) I am open to questions/comments/suggestions, all that jazz. **


	11. And Then Devoured Me Whole

**Chapter Track: I Want My Innocence Back – Emilie Autumn**

** ***TW: Rape**

Autumn melted away into winter, and South Park enjoyed the first heavy snow of the year in early December. At least, Kenny thought it was winter. Since he'd dropped out of school he didn't have to keep track of the days, and frankly, couldn't. His mind was heavy, and forgetful. But he had money in the bank. He'd bought his first new pair of jeans _ever_, and though they were little snug (since he'd been too lazy to try them on), he felt pretty damn dapper. No holes, no stains or dirt on him. No sir, Kenny was classy as fuck.

He had become so happy in the past couple of months that past troubles were almost completely forgotten. When he did remember…things like Kyle, and Stan, and even Principal Victoria being stupidly concerned for him, Kenny just popped a couple of pills and fell back into his routine of bliss.

Jesus Christ, he was even getting along with his parents. That never happened. But after the end of a successful day, Kenny found himself able to sit between them on the couch and watch reruns of old gameshows or even fucking football.

Kenny's life had never been this pleasant before.

Holy shit, he had only died _twice_ since dropping out. Once, he'd been mugged by a guy in the sketchy, industrial part of Denver while trying to sell his goods, and the other, he'd overdosed in his own bed with somebody attractive. He had no idea if that somebody was a guy or a chick or neither, but he sort of remembered enjoying himself, so he figured it must have been a pretty decent death for his track record.

But sometimes…

Kenny dreamt vividly. He always had, but somehow, the drugs amplified everything when he slept.

_Red curly hair. The carpet _does_ match the drapes, for inquiring minds. I love that. I love that when I suck him off, I can tell who it is because of his pubes. It's…endearing. Like how he has three freckles on the left side of his hips. Like how if you touch him in exactly the right spot, he makes this moaning sound that nothing else can cause._

_ I'm touching him. He's touching me. His skin is pretty. It's sweaty. He's still pale, but there's a golden tone to his skin from practicing basketball outdoors. He has a stripe of sunburn just across his nose. The spots you always forget. I kiss him and tell him I'll make it feel better. _

_ He's so soft. His skin. His hands. His hair. His lips. In this dream he tells me that he's joined the swim team, and shaved all his body hair. Touching him is one of the greatest things I've ever done._

_ And then it's flipped. He's on top of me. The sun is streaming in from my bedroom window, backlighting him so that he looks like he's glowing. It's appropriate, somehow, with how his hands are making me feel. He has long fingers. Small wrists. They're not delicate, though. He's strong. Nobody thinks he, but I know he is. _

_ Then he's inside of me. That almost never happens. I don't let people do that. I'm always the top. But somehow, it's different with him. I don't mind, because he's gentle and smiles at me and plays with my hair when he rides me. _

_ His lips move. I think he's saying my name._

_ "Kenny."_

_ "Kenny."_

"Kenny!"

Kenny started awake. His blankets flipped off of him. His vision swam, tripling the person that had woken him. It was his mom, he thought. He could only tell because of her gray-red, dangerously-close-to-a-mullet hairstyle.

"Jesus, Ma," complained Kenny, reaching blindly for his alarm clock. He knocked it into his lap and pick it up, squinting, "It's fucking eight in the morning. Why are you even up?"

"Watch your language, you little shit," she said, "Kevin's gettin' outta jail today. We're goin' as a family to pick him up."

"Fuck that, I'm sleeping," Kenny said, tossing his alarm clock aside, and setting back into his mattress.

"The hell you are," Carol said. She picked up the nearest object—which, to Kenny's dismay, was his new bong, and hurled it at his head. It shattered, "Now get your fuckin' clothes on. We're leaving."

Kenny lit a cigarette as he searched the carpet for clothes that smelled acceptable. Most of them smelled like sex and weed. That was alright. It was the vomit-covered clothing that he wanted to avoid. He tugged on a wrinkled green t-shirt (that he wasn't sure belonged to him) and his fancy-ass unripped jeans, grumbling all the way and lighting another cigarette before submitting to his fate, and clambering in the family's truck beside Karen, who was still in her pajamas.

The drive to Buena Vista was about forty-five minutes or so, and Kenny took advantage of that time to go back to sleep again. To his dismay, he did not return to his pleasant dreams, and nor did he sleep well at all. The truck bounced along the road, and the entire trip felt like a go with bumper cars at a crappy carnival. Kenny compensated by popping a pill and lighting another cigarette.

He could practically smell the suckiness that would be today. He fucking hated his brother. Kevin had been thrown in the slammer for rape. Not some light shoplifting or public nudity like Kenny had gotten in trouble for, but actual fucking rape. Kenny may have been a sexual creature and a total bastard, but even he knew that rape was fucking weak. To say the least. Kevin had always been a dickbag, though, so when he'd been arrested, it had come as no surprise.

They parked in the lot, some ways back. Kevin was supposed to meet the family just outside the front gates.

Kenny's brother looked mostly as Kenny could recall, except that he seemed to have acquired a taste for either working out or popping steroids. Kenny could make out the edges of a new tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of Kevin's plain white t-shirt.

As the McCormicks approached, a uniformed prison guard uncuffed Kevin's wrists.

"That's my boy," Stuart clapped Kevin on the shoulder and offered him a cigarette. Carol hugged her son, Kenny gave his brother a manly sort of half-hug, and Karen just stared. He couldn't blame his sister for it, really. Kevin did look scary as shit. One half of his head was shaved, and on the other, he had grown his hair out longer than ever. This was something Kenny felt he usually would have referred to as a "sweet-ass punk cut," but on his brother, it just looked wrong.

They used to play together. They used to play kickball and see who could jump further off of a swing, until they grew up a little more and played "Who can take the most cigarettes without Mom and Dad noticing?" or stupid shit like that.

"You high, bro?" Kevin elbowed Kenny amicably.

Kenny lackadaisically rubbed at one eye, "Totally high."

"Can you hook a brother up?"

Kenny shoved his hand in his pocket and retrieved a tablet. He placed it in Kevin's hand. "Ecstasy," he explained.

"Awesome," Kevin said, and he dry swallowed the thing.

They piled into the truck, and due to the addition of his brother, Kenny was this time banished the bitch seat. He sighed, but wasn't overly upset. He was too high to be mad. Okay—well, he _could_ get mad when he was high, but it was mostly too much effort, and now terrifying, since Kevin was now a massive, hulking human being with scary eyes. Which, Kenny being in his current state, looked like they were melting out of their sockets.

"Hey, Kenny, you wanna come to my party tonight in Denver?" asked Kevin.

Party? How the fuck had he organized that? Kenny grinned, "Hell, yeah, I do."

**o.o.o.o**

Maybe Kenny had done too much pregame. He and Kevin, with Kevin's girlfriend (Shelly Marsh? Kenny had almost wanted to demand _why the fuck_ you'd inflict such a creature upon yourself, but she was alright once she had some weed in her) had smoked a couple bowls and split a bottle of cheap whiskey before they started the drive to Denver. The drive was a couple hours long, maybe a little less. Kenny amused himself by taking more acid, since what he'd had that morning seemed to have worn off.

_How the fuck does Kevin have so many friends…_Kenny found himself wondering. He was sitting on a beanbag chair in somebody's house in Denver, or at least that's what he thought it was…there were so many people. Or maybe it only looked like that because of all the lights. There was a strobe light. It was fucking with his head.

"DAMN _IT,"_ Kenny shouted, but over the music and the relative commotion, nobody could hear his voice. But, he was so high that he couldn't tell if he'd actually yelled, or just yelled in his own mind.

Oh god. The room started to twist like a pinwheel. At first it was funny. Kenny laughed and laughed and laughed and felt like he was on a spinning ride at an amusement park. But then he felt bad.

"Oooh sssshit," Kenny slurred, and, clutching at his stomach, he vomited into the carpet. Had he even eaten anything today? It looked like he'd just coughed up water and alcohol and drugs. When he tried to push himself up off of his hands and knees, his head whirled around and he fell, face flat, into his own vomit.

"Sick," he managed. Shaking, he used the beanbag chair to pull himself up, and with trembling hands, he reached into his hoodie pocket and took out another pill. He didn't even know what it was. He sold too many drugs. Too many pills. Now it was too dark and he was too fucked up to tell what he just put in his mouth. "Take your medicine, Kenny," he chortled to himself, and took a second pill for good measure.

Suddenly he wasn't on the floor anymore. He was upright, grinding with a girl in a corset. The beat of the music pounded in his head. He decided he'd just reach down and take as he pleased, and so he grabbed the girl's breasts. She must have been high, too, because she didn't hit him. She just smiled and licked the side of his neck. He refrained from telling her that he'd just been wallowing in his own vomit.

Then he was only the floor again.

Oh Jesus, how had he gotten here. Kenny grabbed at his hair, tearing, because he didn't know what else to do.

Wait, had somebody moved him to a couch? He was laying on his stomach, with his face in an ugly cushion. Somebody was petting him like you pet a cat. No, somebody was groping him. They were…they were taking off his pants.

"Gerrroff!" Kenny hoarsely protested, and he kicked the offender. He landed something- probably in the knee.

There was a pained grunt, and then the guy yelled, "You little bitch!"

Kenny tried to get up but the guy shoved his head into the couch cushions. He couldn't breathe. Oh god. He was choking. Dying. He was so concentrated on his burning lungs that he almost didn't notice that his attacker had managed to get his jeans all the way off.

"Nonono," Kenny cried, kicking out his legs again.

"_Fuck_. Hold him down, you guys."

Kenny felt two sets of hands clamped down on his ankles. He screamed, or maybe he thought he screamed, but the party kept on. The beat of the music still vibrated in his head. Everything was still in vivid, ugly colors. But the part of Kenny that was still present knew that what was happened was bad, bad, bad. Very bad.

_Oh my God,_ Kenny thought. Somebody was grabbing him. Somebody was groping at his ass. Their fingernails hurt. Wait, where had his boxers gone?

"NNNNNN_OOOARRGHHH," _was the noise that Kenny made, when a pain almost like dying tore through his entire body. Somebody was raping him. _Oh my God. _What was happening to him? What…where…had his brother gone?

_Why was nobody stopping him?_

Kenny started to do something that he hadn't done in a _very_ long time.

Kenny McCormick began to cry. He sobbed. This hurt. It hurt a lot and nobody was doing anything. Since his ankles were still being held down, he knew that somebody was _watching._

Some sick bastards were watching as their friend pumped in and out of Kenny's body like it was his damned job.

It was only a few minutes, but it felt like hours to Kenny, before the guy yanked up Kenny's head by his hair, tugging viciously, and climaxed.

Kenny looked, terrified, into the meanest eyes he'd ever seen.

"Oh, look, he's _crying_," the rapist said, "Isn't that just sweet?" There were laughs.

And laughs and laughs and laughs.

Even after they'd left Kenny bleeding and crying on the sofa, there were laughs.

Kenny passed out with his rapists' friends laughing in his ears.

**o.o.o.o**

**Ummm. WELL I HOPE YOU WEREN'T EXPECTING A PICK-ME-UP. This isn't the most terrible thing I've done to a character, but it's definitely like top ten. :/ Sorry. Thank you to my most excellent reviewers, InstruMental and TheAwesome15. Seriously, I don't know if I could do this without you guys. Every review is special to me. 3 **


	12. In Your Head, They Are Dying

**Chapter Track: Zombie – The Cranberries**

Kyle's college applications had been sent in. He'd already seen a few acceptance letters to Ivy League schools, but he thought that he'd rather attend CU Boulder with Stan, since Stan was set to receive a pretty hefty baseball scholarship. That's where Wendy intended to go, as well, saying that she liked their biology program.

So why didn't Kyle feel happy? The past months had been great. Better than great, in fact. They'd been nothing short of fantastic. Even the basketball team had been winning some, which it didn't tend to. He'd gotten asked out on a date, too. Stan had taken him to a club up in Denver where it seemed the queer community populated, a club called Tracks. Instead of dancing, he'd just ended up sitting outside with this guy Eli. They'd bonded over the fact that they were both gay and Jewish, and their taste in literature. They both walked away with each other's phone numbers.

He lived a little far, in Littleton. But they'd both exerted enough effort and driven to see each other for a couple dates. Kyle liked him. He liked him a lot.

…But still not as much as he cared for Kenny.

Kenny, who he hadn't seen or heard a word from in months. Not a single text. He'd heard rumors, of course. None of them were good. Rumors of hard drugs and insane partying. That sounded true. And Kevin McCormick was supposed to be released from jail sometime that month, though Kyle didn't know exactly when. He only knew in the first place because Stan's sister was dating the guy.

Why couldn't he just get over the hurt feelings? Stan had let Kyle lean on him for the first couple of weeks after they'd overheard Kenny's sex session, but then had expected Kyle to magically become happy again, to heal up just like that, and to stop worrying about Kenny McCormick. Kyle didn't get it. Why wasn't Stan concerned, too? So Kyle had had sex with Kenny, but Stan had also been friends with Kenny since their preschool days.

These were the thoughts reeling in Kyle's mind as he attempted to study for the upcoming SAT test in the school library. They were going in circles. Nothing new, just the same thoughts. School. Eli. Kenny. Stan. School. Eli. Kenny. Stan. Over and over and over again.

On the last date they'd gone on, Eli had driven to South Park, and they'd gone to Tweak Bros for some coffee. At the end of the night, it started snowing, and Eli kissed Kyle. It made his heart ache just a little as he thought of it, because it had felt nice, but Kyle didn't like it as much as the way that Kenny had kissed him. And that, naturally, made him feel guilty.

This was stupid. Being a teenager was so fucking stupid. Everything was fucking stupid. Stupid college, stupid tests, stupid friends, stupid parents, and worst of fucking all, stupid fucking feelings. There were times that Kyle would stop whatever he was doing and realize that he felt like he was fracturing into a billion tiny little pieces. And how fucking gay that sounded, too. But it was true, too true for comfort.

Kyle's wooden pencil snapped in his hand. He didn't realize that he'd been clenching his fist so tightly. The noise caused Wendy to look up from where she sat across from him. Stan was too engrossed in his Gameboy to look up. He'd tagged along to "study," but always seemed to end up with a game in his hand, eyebrows knit in concentration. Not that Stan was a stupid guy, because he was pretty smart…just a little less dedicated to his education, Kyle supposed.

"Are you okay, Kyle?" Wendy asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Kyle let out the breath that he'd been holding. He answered, "Uh, fine. I'm just, er, stuck. What does 'reliquary' mean?"

Wendy 's dark brows lifted high into her hair. She said, "You and I both know that you know what reliquary means, Kyle. Seriously, what the hell is bothering you?"

Kyle struggled to come up with something that sounded better than 'I think I'm falling for a drug-dealing sex addict that wants nothing do with me,' and the only thing that came to mind was, "I'm just stressed out. Senior year, am I right?"  
>"Bullshit, Broflovski," Stan pitched in, without even glancing for a second from his game, "but I'm your friend, so I'll let this pass. When you want to actually talk about what's got you like this, I'm all ears."<p>

"I'm fine," Kyle repeated, instead, "Christ, you two are paranoid." It annoyed him that Wendy and Stan exchanged a glance at these words, like they were in on something that he wasn't.

On an impulse, Kyle took out his cell. He typed a quick text to Kenny's number, "_Haven't heard from you in ages. What's up?" _Kyle stared at it for a second before hitting the send button, and then tucked his phone back into his messenger bag.

Kyle felt a little lighter after sending it, but when it vibrated a couple minutes later, Kenny's reply read, "_fuck off."_

**o.o.o.o**

Of course Kenny would pass out right where the window was . Of fucking course.

Sunlight streamed onto Kenny's face, and he woke to easily the worst morning of his life. And he had had a metric fuckton of bad mornings.

He rolled over and groaned, moving a pillow out from under his head and placing it on top instead, so he'd have a shield from the sunlight. He hurt _everywhere._ Every fucking part of his body was sore, inside and out. His throat was raw. His legs felt overused. His eyes were dry and itchy, and stung when he tried to rub the sleepiness out of them. The worst pain, though, was between his legs.

And then the worst thing about that morning became remembering what had happened to him. But the worst of _that_ was that Kenny couldn't even remember all of what happened last night. Only bits and pieces came to him. A lot of being on the floor. Hands on his ankles. Laughing. Lots of pain. Oh Christ, there had been so much pain. And the meanest eyes he'd ever seen.

Absolute despair fell over Kenny, like somebody had poured a bucket of it onto his body. It soaked him through him and stuck to his skin. He had never felt so disgusting in his life. For a long time, he didn't want to move. He stayed on his side on the couch where he'd been raped. He had been _raped. _That one word pounded into his brain like the beat of the music had the night before.

Slowly, he sat. On top of everything, he was hungover. God, he hated himself. With a grunt of pain, he pulled his boxers back on, from where they'd been tangled on his calves. There were purple bruises on his ankles. He found his jeans in a crumpled pile beside the couch and struggled to get them on. It hurt to do everything. As Kenny buttoned the fly, he noticed that his new pair of jeans had holes on the knees. It pissed him off. It pissed him off more that he couldn't remember a damn thing about how they'd gotten there.

The house was wrecked. One of the worst morning-after scenes he'd ever laid eyes on, in fact. Partygoers were practically stacked on top of each other around the room, many of them, like he had been, missing clothing items. There were red plastic cups on top of everything- the couch he'd woken on, the fireplace mantle, the television, the speaker set. There were bottles and cans. Kenny kicked aside somebody's glass pipe with his toes. It hit a girl in pigtails on the nose. She moaned and rolled to her other side.

There were pills crushed into the carpet, and it looked as if somebody had accidentally started a fire and put it out with several blankets, all also charred. He noticed a puddle of vomit by a beanbag chair, which was occupied by his brother and Shelly, both missing their clothing. He could _definitely_ done without seeing Shelly Marsh naked.

Kenny was so sore that he could only limp as he walked, searching for the bathroom. Every step was agonizing.

When he finally found the restroom, he discovered that some guy with a mohawk had passed out over the toilet. Kenny grabbed the dude's feet and dragged him out into the hallway, after which he promptly slammed the bathroom door and locked it. His first order of business was to hurl into the toilet. He felt a little better after yacking. But only barely.

Kenny took a piss and as the toilet flushed, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like _shit._ His hair had vomit and blood in it. His nose had bled sometime during the night, and the blood had dried on his upper lip. He had about half a centimeter of beard. There were bags under his eyes, and one of his eyes was black. Plus, he couldn't walk right. Something back there had definitely torn.

Kenny turned on the water in the sink and used one of the hand towels to scrub his face, at least wiping off the various body fluids encrusted to his face. It didn't do much to improve his appearance.

Kenny sank to the floor. He put his knees to his forehead, and for awhile, simply sat. He was sore and hungover and tired and lonely. So he cried. Quietly. He didn't want anybody to wake up to find the fag sobbing in the bathroom. He pulled up his hood. He was so exhausted that even crying felt difficult.

Shaking, he popped a pill, so he wouldn't have to think about what had happened. He lit a cigarette to follow, and wept. He was almost inaudible, except for the sniffling. Like a baby. Christ.

There was a banging on the bathroom door.

"Kenny! Kenny, you in there? We're leaving, Kenny! Get your ass out here!" Kevin shouted this far too loudly with so many people around being hungover.

"Jesus Christ, Kevin, shut the fuck up," Shelly complained.

"Calm your tits, Kev, I'm taking a piss," Kenny called back, mainly because that sounded a lot better than, "I'm sitting on the floor crying about being raped." Especially to one's rapist brother.

Kenny wiped down his face with cool water on the same hand towel he'd used to mop the blood from his face. He kept his hood up, but pulled the bandana around his neck up, so that it covered his mouth. He'd thought that it was cool-looking when he bought it (or maybe he had stolen it. He couldn't fucking remember)—when you folded it right, it looked like the bottom half of your face was a skull. Now it looked…true. At least with it up, he just looked stoned, and not like he'd been crying.

"Baked, already, Ken?" Kevin laughed, "It's like only fucking noon dude."

Kenny inwardly cringed at the butchering of his name. He decided it would be best not to say anything back, and instead, just followed Kevin and Shelly to the McCormick family truck.

"I'm going to sleep," Kenny announced, as Kevin started the engine. His bandana made it sound more like "Mmmgmmsslmp," but he figured that wasn't too hard to translate. As they pulled out of the neighborhood, Kenny's pocket vibrated.

He flipped his phone open. A text from Kyle? Why the fuck would he bother talking to Kenny now? Kenny hardly understood why Stan and Kyle had stopped talking to him in the first place. He was angry. He hated that his friends ignored him like that. Or, at least, people that he'd thought were his friends. But then, he always had fucking loathed how little they paid attention to his disappearances. Of course they didn't care now.

"_Haven't heard from you in ages. What's up?_"

For some reason, this pissed Kenny off beyond belief. He raged inside, and almost felt like crying some more, but instead, wrote back a simple, "fuck off." He didn't need fucking Kyle and Stan anymore. If they were gonna be pricks they were gonna be pricks, and he wouldn't get his shit involved. And then texting him like Kenny was the one being an asshole.

Kenny let the drugs rock his brain into oblivion, and thought savagely, _I don't fucking need anyone._

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my reviewers, the splendid xXxDonnieDarkoxXx and the stupendous TheAwesome15. Also, thank you to all the new readers that put me on your story alerts! I hope you're enjoying my work (If you're not enjoying it you should leave some constructive crit in a review or PM or something). **


	13. Broken Nose and a Broken Heart

**Chapter Track: Ball and Chain – Social Distortion**

"Oh, my God, this is too perfect," Cartman was red in the face from laughing so much. He clutched his rolls and hit the card table with his fist several times in his glee, "Oh Christ. Oh Jesus help me. You look like the biggest fucking _fag_, Kahl. This is just too good."

"Can somebody remind me why we invited Cartman over for poker night?" Stan asked, throwing his cards down on the table in frustration.

Craig sighed, "You're such an asshole, Stan. Now we have to start all over again."

"Gosh, Stan," said Butters, "you had a good hand, too."

"You have to admit," Clyde remarked, "Kyle does look like a faggy hipster kid with those things on."

"Fuck off, Clyde," Kyle said, tossing his cards into the middle to be shuffled again.

"_I know, right_?" Cartman cackled, "Just look at him! He's like a cute little hipster Jew rat!"

"Please shut up, Cartman," Craig deadpanned, "We all hate you. You're just here because Kenny's turned into a crackwhore dropout." Kyle winced at that and pushed up his new glasses. He got why Cartman was laughing. Kyle hated the glasses. But he needed them to fucking see. It was either the black, thick-framed glasses (which he had chosen and now wore), or the tiny wire-rimmed kind that aged anybody at least fifteen years. And he did kind of look like a hipster shit, but better that than a forty-year-old.

"Whatever you say, _Craig_," Cartman drawled, "You hate everybody."

"I do," agreed Craig, "but I hate you the most, fatass."

"Screw you guys," Cartman said, "I'm going-"

"Heeeeey, you started without me," came a slur from the top of the basement stairs.

The group collectively turned to stare. It was Kenny. Or, what used to be Kenny. Kyle and Stan exchanged glances. Kenny looked…terrible. His blond hair looked as though it hadn't been washed in weeks. He had a black eye. The sleeves of his orange hoodie were soaked in blood.

"Holy shit," said Token.

"Oh, geez," managed Butters.

Other than those two comments, the rest of the group stayed utterly silent.

"What, got nothing to say?" spat Kenny. He stumbled forward—he was walking funny, like he had a limp—and shoved his arms out across the card table. Cards and chips went flying. Kenny shouted, "Fuck you guys! Fuck you for _not giving a shit about me_. You and your fucking fancy little lives. You're fucking playing poker in Token's huge ass mansion, and I'm fucking starving. I fucking hate you guys."

"Just for the record, I hated you _before_ you became a crackhead prick," Craig said.

"If you don't get him out of here, I'm calling the cops," Token said.

Stan sighed, "Come on, Kyle. Let's get him out of here."

At Stan's nod, each of them took one of Kenny's arms, and pulled him toward the stairs, while he trashed around, and shouted, and spat. Despite Kenny's efforts, there was little that he could do in his state. Kyle hadn't been able to tell with Kenny's hoodie being so baggy, but now that he had Kenny by the arm, he could tell that the guy was emaciated. He clearly wasn't eating, and Kyle doubted he'd been sleeping either. Just doing drugs. And probably having more sex. That was the part that hurt more. Maybe Kenny hadn't given a shit about the fact that he and Kyle had slept together, but Kyle certainly gave a shit. It mattered. Kenny mattered.

While Stan, polite as ever, gave an embarrassed goodbye to Token's parents (Kyle didn't think they were listening. "Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Black" faded a little in bravado when compared to blood-covered, shrieking-at-the-top-of-his-lungs Kenny McCormick), the boys dragged Kenny out to Stan's truck.

"Fuck you guys," he sputtered angrily, as Kyle and Stan exerted a collective effort to buckle him into the back seat.

While rumbling down the road, Kenny kept on.

"Why won't you guys leave me the fuck alone? You can't just do that? Even when I'm high you're there and-"

"You just said we didn't give a shit about you, and now you're saying that we never leave you alone," Stan stated. Kyle shot him a look, to which Stan responded, "Come on. I know he's high off his ass but he's being an assbag right now and I intend to correct him."

"Not really, you stupid fucking faggot!" yelled Kenny, "I dream. All the time. And you guys are always there and you won't get out of my head."

They decided that Stan's house would be the best place to house Kenny for the time being. Since the Marshes' divorce, Randy had moved to Boulder, and Shelly had moved the instant she'd turned eighteen to live a fascinating life of being a waitress by night and sleeping in a shitty one-room apartment by day. Sharon Marsh was out at her night art class that night, making Stan's place empty and perfect for an intervention.

Kenny screamed at the top of his lungs all the way out of the truck, up the driveway, up the stairs, and into Stan's room.

Stan and Kyle sat on Stan's bed, leaned up against the wall, and turned on the television. They agreed to let Kenny pace and shout out his frustration until he was at least calm enough to sleep or shower or something that he hadn't done in forever. It seemed like the only decent thing on TV was a CSI rerun, and so, they submitted themselves to that.

It was however difficult to pay attention to the murder of a prostitute when Kenny was throwing shit across the room.

"I fucking died yesterday, did you know that? Got some new scars," Kenny rambled. He glanced back at them, wild-eyed, and said, "You're not even fucking paying attention. You're just watching TV, you stupid fucking bastards." Kenny took up one of Stan's baseball trophies and hurled it at them. It hit the wall next to Kyle's head. Feeling satisfied that he'd gotten their attention, Kenny yanked up the bloodied sleeves of his hoodie and showed them the scars that he was talking about.

Kenny stalked over to them and crawled up onto the bed. He shoved his arms into their faces. The scars were scars from cutting—but they were not horizontal. He'd taken something straight up and down on his arm. He whispered, "See? See, guys? I tried to off myself again. I don't know why I even fucking try anymore. It hurt and I knew it wasn't going to work. And guess fucking what? It _didn't_. So we get to be here and have this nice little chat."

"Kyle, do you know what the hell he's talking about?" Stan quietly asked.

Kyle looked into Kenny's eyes, but answered Stan, "Kenny can't die. He's said it like a million times. But it's true."

"Okay," Stan said slowly, "Kenny, you shouldn't kill yourself. I mean, I know you can't die. But you know what, life would fucking suck without you, okay?"

Kyle was impressed. Stan kept his voice calm. Then he realized that Stan was using his 'abused animal voice' – the one he used when he volunteered at the animal shelter on some weekends. Stan offered his hand to Kenny.

Kenny stared at it. He protested, "You've already been living life without me, motherfucker. And neither of you give a real shit, do you? How do I know you're real, anyway? How do I know this isn't another stupid fucking dream?"

"Kenny, we've been worried as hell," Stan said, faltering a little in his abused-animal act. He went on.

"No you haven't. Nobody worries about me. Nobody cares," Kenny hissed.

"I care," Kyle interrupted, "I care a lot."

It would have been a very tense, very emotional moment. _Would_ have. If Stan's phone hadn't started playing 'Girls' loudly. Kyle and Kenny both looked over as Stan sheepishly dipped into his pocket and answered, "Wendy, now is not a good time. What? Okay, hold on." Stan mouthed an apology and wiggled off of his bed and to his door. There, he said, "Wendy, hold on a sec." He put his hand over the receiver of his cell and ordered to Kyle, "Lock the door behind me, okay?"

When Stan closed the door behind him, Kyle followed and clicked the lock on the doorknob closed. He and Kenny stared for a very long time at one another, without speaking, or moving. Finally, Kenny slid from the bed. He walked toward Kyle. Well, sort of. He had an odd sort of limp in his gait. It was disconcerting.

"What happened to you?" asked Kyle, "Why are you limping?"

"I don't want to talk about that," Kenny said hoarsely, sounding more sober with that one sentence than he had during the entire night.

Kenny stopped so that the toes of his feet touched the toes of Kyle's. Kyle could hear Kenny's erratic breathing and smell the alcohol on every exhale. Kenny's blue-gray eyes were so bloodshot that they looked pink, and now that Kyle was close and Kenny wasn't writhing around, he could see that the blond was shaking.

"Maybe…you should sit down," suggested Kyle, "I'll sit with you, okay?"

Kenny nodded.

Kyle guided Kenny to the edge of Stan's bed, where they lowered their bodies, and sat, side by side, with thighs touching. After a moment of hesitation, Kyle slid his arm around Kenny. Kenny quaked under him, and muttered under his breath. Kyle was close enough that he could make out a few of the words. Kenny was chanting, he realized.

"It's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's a dream," Kenny murmured, while his eyes moved rapidly from place to place.

"It's not a dream, dude," Kyle said gently.

Kenny's head shot up. His eyes were so wide, so vacant, that when he looked at Kyle, Kyle thought that Kenny was about to attack him. But he didn't. Instead, Kenny let his head fall into Kyle's lap. He curled up into a little ball and rocked back and forth, making Stan's mattress creak under the pressure. Kyle place his hand on Kenny's back, and gradually, began to rub, up and down.

Kenny started to cry.

Kyle was stunned. He'd never seen Kenny McCormick cry. _Ever._ Okay, maybe back in elementary school, but definitely not since at least the fifth grade. Granted, Kenny wasn't all-out sobbing. He was just sniffling. But definitely crying.

"Kyle, why do you care?" asked Kenny.

"Why do I care about what?"

"Me," Kenny clarified.

"Because you're my best friend. I know you didn't believe me the last time that I said that, but I really meant it," Kyle responded softly. There were other things he wanted to add, and could have, without Kenny actually remembering. Despite that this felt like a real conversation, it wasn't. Kenny was too drunk and too high to have any clue what was going on. Furthermore, sober Kenny McCormick did not talk about feelings. Still, Kyle thought of what he might have liked to add. _I haven't once stopped thinking about you._ _I missed you. _Sometimes in the past months, Kyle would stop whatever he was doing, whether it be messing around on Facebook, playing video games with Stan, going to the movies, or even doing his homework, and he would realize how much fun he'd be having if Kenny had been there, too. That was what he wanted to say most of all.

Kenny said, his words muffled in Kyle's leg, "You're my best friend too."

Kyle began to run a hand through Kenny's hair. This was admittedly fairly gross. The self-cut blond hair was greasy, and some parts of it had unidentifiable crap stuck in or hardened there.

Kyle made an executive decision. Kenny needed to bathe. And eat. And sleep, goddamnit. He lifted Kenny up off of the bed, carrying him bridal-style into Stan's bathroom.

"Where are we going?" moaned Kenny, but he didn't make too much of a racket. Kyle hoped that maybe now he was calmed down.

"You're going to get in the bath. I'm not going to leave, okay? You're just totally disgusting and I really can't take it," Kyle explained. He propped Kenny up on the toilet and began to unzip his hoodie. Kenny allowed these ministrations like a ragdoll. Kyle commanded, "Lift up."

Kenny obeyed wordlessly. Kyle peeled off Kenny's stained wifebeater. It was stuck to Kenny's chest from the sweat.

Kyle started the water in Stan's bathtub before relieving Kenny of his jeans. Kyle winced at some of the abuse Kenny's legs had seen. There were cuts among his scars, and a ring of bruises around each ankle. Somehow, looking at those made Kyle feel nauseated, and he quickly glanced away.

He tested the temperature of the water before removing Kenny's briefs and transferring him into the tub. It was a task to get him situated. Kenny had calmed down so much that he wouldn't even hold his own body up, and kept slipping down into further into the water. With much effort, Kyle managed to use one arm to secure him in place, and another to pour (perhaps a bit too much) shampoo onto Kenny's head.

"Axe?" Kyle muttered to himself. No wonder Stan always smelled like a douchebag.

One-handed, Kyle scrubbed the soap into Kenny's hair, sometimes picking a little to get the crud out of it. It was one of the more disgusting things Kyle had done with his time. And, considering his friends, this was a big claim.

"Kyle?" mumbled Kenny, almost inaudibly.

"Hmm?"

"Touch me," he whispered.

"That's not a good idea, Kenny," Kyle said tartly. He made sure to give Kenny's cuts a little bit of extra, but gentler, attention. Kenny was shit at taking care of himself, and who knows what would happen if those got infected?

"Sex is always a good idea," argued Kenny, with his eyes still closed.

"Not right now, it isn't," Kyle replied, "Look, dude. I like you and I love having sex with you, but I'm not gonna fuck you in this state, okay? You're too fucked up to be making decisions, so just shut the fuck up and let me help you."

Kenny's eyes slitted open and he cast a sideways glance at Kyle, saying merely, "Fine."

Kyle scooped up bathwater with a cup and dumped it over Kenny's head, kind of like his mom would do for him when he was little and needed a bath. He'd always hated that part. He always got soap in his eyes. He seemed to do alright with Kenny, though, because Kenny didn't protest or even make a noise.

Kyle pulled the plug and let the water drain before hefting Kenny out of the bathtub. Carrying Kenny's deadweight, even though Kyle could see the guy's ribs, was a difficult task. He had to lay Kenny on the bath rug awkwardly so he could run and get a towel. He rubbed Kenny dry, starting with his hair, and working down his arms and chest. When he reached Kenny's backside, however—

"Do not even dare fucking _touching me there_," Kenny snapped, apparently now out of his calm mode and returned to being shaken and angry.

Kyle felt the same nausea at this reaction as he had at the bruises around Kenny's ankles, but answered, "It's alright, I won't. Can you walk on your own? Let's find you some clothes."

They returned to Stan's bedroom. Kyle went sifting through Stan's closet, and Kenny curled up on the bed, naked. Kyle ended up choosing some practical clothes, that would at least get Kenny through the night by serving as pajamas. Plain gray boxers (he felt weird touching Stan's underwear), and one of those XXXXL t-shirts that you win at giveaways and raffles and never wear, because there is nobody that gargantuan in reality. It said on it 'Denver Dumb Friends League.'

Being so skinny, Kenny swam in the shirt, but was to exhausted and high to care. Kenny went back to being curled up on the bed.

Stan quietly knocked on his own door.

Kyle answered, "What's up with Wendy? It's pretty late."

"She just found out that her mom's in the hospital. She got into a car accident down in Parker, and her dad's like someplace off in Virginia on business. I told her I'd drive her down there tomorrow, that I couldn't tonight," Stan muttered back, "she's really upset. It's freaking her out, even after I pointed out that visiting hours don't even start until morning…did you dress Kenny in my clothes?"

"He was nasty, Stan. I couldn't leave him that way. Would you mind sticking his clothes in the wash?"

"The fuck if I know how to do laundry," Stan said.

"Okay, I'll put them in the wash. Could you get him something to eat? He looks like he hasn't had real food in weeks," Kyle said.

Stan gave a nod, "Yeah. This is making me feel like total shit, Kyle. How could we let him get this way?"

"I don't know, man," Kyle replied, and he really didn't. He felt like a dick. An ugly, massive dick. The state Kenny was in made him sick. Friends didn't just fucking let that happen, and they had. But what were they supposed to do now? Sure, they could get him cleaned up and feed him and make him sleep, but what happened in the morning? Did they refuse to let him leave until he agreed to get clean? Did they force him into rehab? They couldn't do any of that. They were just his friends. His parents could force him to go, but they didn't give two shits about what Kenny did with himself. Even if they did, Kenny could just bribe them with some of the shit he sold.

Kyle and Stan split. Kenny's clothes were nothing short of disgusting. Caked in dirt and blood and what looked to be vomit, they'd needed to be washed ages ago. Kyle put them in for a heavy cycle and joined Stan in the kitchen, where he was throwing together some sandwiches.

"Do you think he'll eat these?" asked Stan, unsure, as he stared at his handiwork of white bread, deli turkey and American cheese.

"He will if I have anything to say about it," Kyle replied.

Stan laughed a little at this.

"What? What's so funny?" asked Kyle.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just that you sound like my mom, dude," Stan chuckled. He returned the sandwich-making supplies to the fridge, and together, they brought Kenny the plate. Kenny was still curled up on the bed. He was staring at the ceiling now, as though something fascinating was up there—there wasn't. Just the stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that Stan had put up there when he was eleven and had never taken down.

"Hey dude," Stan greeted. He sat on the edge of his mattress, near Kenny's feet.

Kyle said, "We brought you something to eat, okay?"

"'M not hungry," Kenny shook his head.

"Yeah, you are, asshole," Kyle replied. He held out one of the sandwiches and said, "If you don't eat it, I am going to end you. I'm not kidding. You look like shit. Eat the fucking sandwich."

"Jesus, Kyle," Kenny said, "if it's that important to you." But once Kenny had taken his first bite of the first sandwich, he started devouring them, maybe four bites to a single sandwich. They were eliminated in a matter of moments.

Soon after that, Kenny's eyes began to droop. He looked as though he would be going to sleep, for the first time in too long.

Stan stood, and stretched. He said, "It looks like our work here is done, dude. You wanna go downstairs and play some Fallout?"

Kyle shook his head, "I'm gonna stay up here with him. You go and play."

"Suit yourself," said Stan, and he left the room.

Kyle waited until he heard Stan's footsteps pounding down the stairs, and the sound of television being switched on. Then, he pulled his feet onto the bed, rested his head behind Kenny's, and wrapped his arms around him. Before…when he and Kenny had been sleeping together, Kenny would never have let Kyle do this. Kenny hated being too close after sex. But Kyle liked it. It felt nice, and right, to hold him in his arms.

"Kenny?" Kyle said.

Kenny was asleep.

"I know you said no feelings," Kyle went on anyway, "but I wanted you to know that I like you. A lot."

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my splendid reviewers: MariePierre (who is totally lovely for reviewing pretty much all of my chapters!), TheAwesome15, and TheNerds. You guys are my favorites. Seriously. I keep updating so fast because you all make me feel like the shit. If you have any questions/comments/concerns, please let me know! I hope this chapter wasn't too fluffy. :P Please, if you have constructive crit, I would love to hear your suggestions. **


	14. A Little Dance With the Devil

**Chapter Track: Hole in the Middle – Emily Jane White**

Kyle woke up cold. The first thing he noticed that morning was that it was snowing outside. He liked those kind of Colorado mornings, where the light streaming in from the window was such a light grey that it was almost white, and gave the bedroom a sort of eerie glow. The next thing he noticed was that Kenny was not in the bed, and the clothes Kyle had dressed him in the previous night were in a pile at the foot of Stan's bed.

Still, there was the lingering scent of Stan's faggy Axe shampoo on the striped pillow, and behind that, Kenny's usual scent. Kyle plucked a blond hair off of his t-shirt, stared at it for a moment, as if he was dreaming, and then flicked it aside onto Stan's carpet. He loved Kenny's smell. Kyle felt as though he could bury his face in all just sit all day. Kyle rubbed at his eyes and ran his hands along the mattress, looking for his glasses. He'd fallen asleep with them on his face, and naturally, the things had performed a disappearing act.

After a few unsuccessful minutes of searching sleepily, Kyle gave up. When Stan found the glasses, he could just return them to Kyle. Kyle's vision wasn't that bad, just bad _enough_.

The smell of a good breakfast wafted through the air, of bacon and pancakes, and syrup. Stan preferred the synthetic stuff, but Kyle couldn't abide it. Fortunately, he and Stan had been friends so long that Mrs. Marsh knew to keep real, expensive maple syrup for when Kyle was over.

The breakfast scene downstairs, however, was not as cheerful as Kyle had pictured it being. He'd thought that Kenny would be at the table, looking at least sort of normal, or maybe that Kenny and Stan had already finished eating and were deep in an intense round of CoD.

This was not the case.

Instead, Stan was sitting alone at the kitchen table, fuming.

"What's going on?" asked Kyle, snagging the chair directly across from his friend.

"Fucker stole my bike," muttered Stan, mid-chew. At Kyle's questioning expression, Stan swallowed his bite of pancake and said, "Kenny stole my goddamn bike. I woke up and he was gone, with his clothes and my fucking, damn bike."

"…I didn't even put those in the dryer," Kyle replied.

"That's all you can say? Dude, really? 'I didn't even put those in the dryer'? The asswipe stole my fucking bike," seethed Stan. He took a hulking bite of butter-smeared pancake so that he didn't say anything further.

"He's probably fucking freezing," Kyle said, without really thinking. "Disheartening" could only began to describe the feelings that he felt. He'd thought…okay, so it maybe had been a little bit of a fantasy that Kyle would come down the stairs and that Kenny would be waiting there to bid him a good morning with open arms. But even realistically, Kyle had thought that Kenny would stay for a round of pancakes, at least. Abruptly, he didn't feel hungry or cheerful at all. He just wanted to go home and curl up in his own bed. His mother had probably texted him like ten billion times anyway. He'd told her that he'd be home before eleven last night, which clearly had not happened.

Stan grumbled, "I don't give a shit how cold that asshole is. He fucking deserves it. Thieving prick."

"Don't you have to take Wendy to Parker to visit her mom in the hospital?" asked Kyle.

"Oh, god fucking damn it. I am going to fucking kill everybody today," Stan stood so quickly that his chair catapulted back and hit the tiled floor with a huge _crack._

Sharon called after him, "Stanley, you watch your language!"

"Fuck off, Mom," Stan replied, before charging up the stairs, a dark look gracing his features.

"Kyle, how many pancakes would you like?" Sharon asked.

Kyle jumped slightly at being addressed. He said, "Uh, that's okay. I'm not feeling too well. I think I'm gonna walk home."

**o.o.o.o**

Wendy practically toppled out of the door, when Stan rang the bell. She grabbed his hand and squeezed, demanding, "Why are you so late? I've been waiting for you for fucking ever."

Stan bent his head to check his watch, but Wendy yanked him toward his truck. He stumbled behind and said, "Wendy, I'm sure she's fine. Chill out."

"She's in the _hospital_, Stan," Wendy replied indignantly, "She is very clearly not fine."

Rather than argue, Stan nodded sympathetically and pulled Wendy in for a half hug, rubbing her forearm in what he hoped was considerate affection. Wendy leaned into him for a moment, and let out an anxious sigh. He liked when Wendy leaned on him. She didn't do it much. They stood there for a moment, getting snowed on. He put his lips on the part of her hair, and murmured, "It'll be okay. Okay?"

"Thanks, Stan," Wendy replied.

They loaded into his truck. He was a little nervous about the snow. It wouldn't be too bad with his new set of snow tires, but still…why did this weather have to time itself so perfectly with the near disaster of Mrs. Testaburger's car accident? He hoped that Colorado would do what it always did, and stop out of nowhere, just to have the sun come out.

The drive out of the mountains was simple enough. They slid a couple times, but Stan was a decent driver (actually, he was kind of a dick while driving, but that usually served him well). And soon enough, they were on the 285, powering full speed ahead through the storm and to the hospital. Wendy, surprisingly, fell asleep while Stan drove.

It made him smile a bit. He'd always liked the way she looked when she slept. She looked a lot less concerned than when she was up and about. Plus, it reminded him of the way they cuddled after sex, which was naturally a happy thought. He also liked that after Wendy had been in his truck, it smelled like her. Something feminine and sweet-scented, maybe vanilla. Whatever it was, Stan liked it.

"Focus on the road, Stanley," Wendy murmured, opening her eyes a bit.

He chuckled, and went back to concentrating on his driving.

A little over two hours later, the pair had made it safely into Parker. It wasn't difficult to locate the hospital. In addition to being practically right off of the exit, Parker Adventist wasfucking enormous, and stood on a hill like some holy beacon to the people. Stan parked the truck in the lot, relieved to be done with the arduous journey through the snow. It wasn't a bad storm, really. Since Colorado was so dry, the snow that came down was the fluffy, pussy-type snow. Not the wet shit that fucking _hurt_ if you dared to have a snowball fight.

"Wendy, we're here," Stan said. He shook her gently.

"Mmm," she protested.

"We've gotta see your mom, Wendy," Stan said.

This did the trick—they were out of the truck in about five seconds flat, and into the hospital lobby. Stan didn't like hospitals. At all. But this one was okay, he supposed, for a hospital. It was all…nice…inside. It didn't smell like formaldehyde and there weren't flickering fluorescent lights. He didn't feel like he was in a horror movie. Which was good, because when Wendy asked to see her mother, Stan wasn't allowed to go back with her. He had to sit in the waiting room, where an episode of Adventure Time was playing, and two toddlers were fighting over one of those maze toys made out of coated wire and big wooden beads.

Stan couldn't have been waiting for more than fifteen minutes before Wendy returned to the waiting room. They'd been in too much of a rush that morning for him to have noticed, but now he did—she looked awesome. He felt an admiring smile pick up his lips. Her purple sweater was nice and low cut, just enough that he could see the top swells of her breasts. Damn, did he love those.

"Stan?"

Aw, shit.

She had tears in her eyes.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"It's not good," she said.

**o.o.o.o**

God, Kyle hoped that Kenny was home. Stuart and Carol freaked him out. He hated when they answered the door.

But, thankfully, it wasn't.

It was Kenny.

They stared at each other for awhile. Kenny didn't say anything. He instead simply looked Kyle up and down with his half-finished cigarette dangling between his lips. He looked infinitely better than he had the previous night. Though uncombed, his blond hair was clean. His clothes, albeit stained and torn, were also clean—though wrinkled, because he'd decided to wear them without drying the damn things.

"Can I help you with something?" Kenny finally asked, exhaling cigarette smoke into Kyle's face, "You lost?"

Kyle coughed and said, "No, you asshole. I came to see you, because you fucking took off with Stan's bike this morning without a fucking word."

"Oh, is that it?" Kenny said, "His bike is over there." On Kenny's front lawn, Kyle could see Stan's red mountain bike. It was mostly buried beneath the building snow, except for the handles. Kenny made to shut the door, but Kyle stuck his converse in the door.

Kyle grunted in pain when it closed on his foot. He said, "Let me in, asswipe. This isn't about Stan's stupid bike. I need to talk to you."

"Funny," remarked Kenny, "I _don't_ need to talk to you. Just fuck off, Kyle."

"Okay, look, dickhead, I'm fucking freezing. Let me the fuck in, or I am going to fucking cut you," Kyle bit out. Without even allowing Kenny to respond, he forced the door open with his shoulder. Kenny fell backwards onto the carpet. His cigarette went flying off somewhere. Kyle slammed the McCormick's front door behind him.

"I want you to stop this," Kyle ordered.

"Stop fucking what, faggot?" Kenny spat back, rescuing his Marlboro before they accidentally lit anything on fire. A house fire was the last thing that the McCormick family needed.

"This," Kyle gestured to Kenny's haggard appearance, the cigarette in his hand, meaning to convey the general ordeal that Kenny had dug himself so deeply into.

Kenny stuck his tongue out and grinned, "Oh, gee whiz, thanks, Kyle. You just gestured to all of me."

Kyle made a noise of frustration. His voice began to raise of its own accord, "Goddamnit, dude! You know that's not what I fucking meant. I want you to stop treating yourself like shit. I want you to stop drinking all the fucking time and putting all that shit in your system."

Kenny gave this a derisive snort. He commented, "That is absolutely _touching_, sweetheart. But that shit ain't gonna happen."

"Really, Kenny? Because you have friends out there who are sick of seeing you this way. I…damn it, I am so tired of watching you destroy yourself. You're better than this."

"No, I'm not, Kyle," Kenny said. Kenny put out the butt of his cigarette on the ashtray that was sitting on the couch in the front room, and stared up at Kyle from where he sat on the carpet, without smiling, or winking, or throwing in any of his typical shenanigans.

Kyle felt the anger siphon out of him. The look in Kenny's gray-blue eyes told Kyle that he was completely serious. Kenny did not think he was better than the half-life of drugs and self-hatred that he was living. Every argument that Kyle had built up in his head blew away like dust in the wind. He sighed. Gradually, he lowered his body to sit across from Kenny's on the worn out carpet.

"You're wrong, you know," Kyle quietly told his friend. And he leaned, closing the space in between them, and pressed his lips against Kenny's.

Kenny made a soft noise, something between gasp of surprise and a moan. Kyle thought that Kenny would take over the embrace, as usually he preferred, but instead, he allowed Kyle full control of the kiss. They melted together, and found their bodies horizontal.

Kyle straddled Kenny as they kissed, tongues entwined. Kenny had never let him be on top before. It was exhilarating. He felt in charge, like he controlled Kenny, but simultaneously, that he had to take care of him. It was the oddest, twisting feeling that took over Kyle's entire insides, like somebody had taken his organs and begun to wring the blood out of them.

Either that, or all the blood was sailing out of his brain and into his dick, instead.

Kyle decided that what was happening was likely the less poetic option.

He rubbed his body up against Kenny's.

Neither of them was thinking. All either knew was that they wanted each other and they wanted each other _right that second, _and the faster they could strip the clothes from one another's bodies, the better. Kenny looked gorgeous naked, Kyle thought. He always had. His scars made him all the more beautiful.

Kyle broke their kiss. He put his mouth everywhere that he could reach, while Kenny squirmed beneath. Kyle could hardly take it—the hot kisses, the tense touches. Kenny's nails dug into his back and he realized that it wasn't painful at all. It was one of the most erotic sensations he'd ever felt in his life, and it sent a shiver of profound, resounding pleasure shuddering throughout his entire body.

"Kyle," Kenny panted, "I-I need to ask you something okay?"

"Mm," Kyle said, planting kisses in a line along Kenny's scarred neck. He hoped he made the best damn hickeys ever seen. Kenny was _his_, goddamnit.

"Please, _please_ be gentle. I'm k-kind of hurt, okay?" Kenny whimpered.

Kyle paused. He withdrew for a moment and said, "If it hurts, we don't-,"

"Shut the fuck up, Kyle," Kenny whispered, and he yanked Kyle down into a heavy kiss, "Just. Be. Gentle." He commanded this with a kiss in between each word.

"Yes, sir," Kyle grinned wickedly, and placed a soft kiss on Kenny's forehead.

"What the fuck are you doing?" muttered Kenny, as Kyle pulled back onto his heels in a crouch, and took up his discarded jeans.

"I came prepared," explained Kyle. He pulled a bottle of unscented hand lotion out of the pocket of his jeans. It was a miniature bottle, like the kind you get at hotels. He sheepishly looked at Kenny, flushed and breathless on the floor, "I…thought this might happen. And this was all I could think of." Though he hadn't thought that he was the one that was going to be using it. Kyle unexpectedly felt nervous, looking at Kenny, where he was sprawled out.

Kenny just gave Kyle a soft smile, reached over, and squeezed the redhead's hand. He said, "You're so fucking considerate."

Kyle squeezed out a little of the lotion onto his fingers. He did as Kenny had done to him many times before, using his fingers to loosen the muscles and make Kenny's body ready.

Kenny cried out—but it didn't feel like a good sound, and so Kyle stopped. He asked, "Did I do something wrong?"

Kenny waved him off, "No, keep going. It just stings a little." The blond offered a crooked smile and Kyle's brows rose. But, he listened, and worked his hand in and out of Kenny's body, until he thought it was time. Kyle drew a line of lotion across his dick and smeared it over himself, gasping softly at the cold sensation.

Kyle planted one hand on either side of Kenny's head, and afforded another small kiss on Kenny's collarbone.

Kenny nudged him forward, "Just go already, Kyle."

Kyle chuckled, and, very cautiously, he guided himself into Kenny's body. Kenny froze at the invasion. Kyle froze too. He looked fearfully into Kenny's eyes, only to find that, despite the pain creasing the space between his brows, Kenny was smiling. Kenny moved his hands so that one rested on the right side of Kyle's ass—but the other, Kenny took and place on top of Kyle's hand, lacing their fingers together.

It was the most intimate moment Kyle had ever had in his entire life.

Gingerly, he began to move, with a little push from the hand that wasn't clutched in his own. Kyle's heart felt weighed down when at first Kenny grunted in pain with every thrust. But the pain must have subsided eventually, for Kenny began to bring his body up to meet Kyle's.

Kyle lost himself inside Kenny. He'd never felt something so good in his life. His blood was pumping so hard that he could feel it in his teeth, and every time Kenny moaned his name, he felt his heart lurch forward with the rest of his body.

They came together.

At first, Kyle didn't want to move. He wanted that one instant of time to never, ever end. His heart had swelled to full and his body was sated, and suddenly, despite everything, the world was fucking okay for a second.

"Damn it, Kyle," Kenny wheezed.

Kyle frowned, "What?"

"Well, I—Fucking damn it. You're just an incredible human being, okay?" Kenny said.

Only then did Kyle relax, easing his body out and off of Kenny's. He backed off a bit, knowing Kenny's thing about being too touchy-feeling after sex, but Kenny scooted closer, and wrapped his arms around Kyle, pushing their sweat-slicking bodies together. If Kyle didn't know any better, he would have called what they were doing _cuddling_.

And then—

The front door opened.

"Kenny! We're—_Oh my Lord_!"

Kenny and Kyle lifted their heads to see the rest of the McCormicks staring back at them, naked and entangled.

Stuart's face was turning purple.

"_You. Fucking. Fags."_

**o.o.o.o**

**Good evening, dearest readers. Many thank yous and internet baked goods for my fabulous reviewers: MariePierre, TheNerds, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, and most of all, That Nixi Rose, who is the bomb diggity and gives amazing constructive crit. As always, if you have suggestions, don't be shy! Shoot me a review or a PM. :D Oh and also thank you to anon reviewer that reviewed like five minutes before I posted the chapter. Lol.**


	15. Challenging Definitions of Sin

**Chapter Track: Wonderlust King – Gogol Bordello**

Wendy was trying not to cry. Stan hated when he could tell that. She almost never cried. Hell, even he cried more than Wendy did. Despite that, Stan was not talented whatsoever at dealing with feelings. His own, Wendy's, or anybody else's. So, he offered what he could: His hand, and a, "Why don't you sit down for a sec?"

She nodded, placed her hand in his, and took the seat beside his. He squeezed her hand and said, "Alright, what's going on? "

Wendy rubbed at her temples with her free hand. She said, "It's not good, Stan."

He stayed quiet, figuring that she would continue when she was inclined.

"They did a brain scan. Routine, I guess, because she had a concussion," Wendy explained, anxiously twisting a long stand of her black hair around her finger. She went on, "…they found a tumor, Stan."

The sensation that struck Stan could only be described as feeling like his stomach had dropped all the way down and out his ass. He'd told her that her mom would be okay. Why did he say something that stupid? What if Mrs. Testaburger _wasn't_ okay? Then he would have really fucked up.

"Oh, goddamnit," he muttered. He moved Wendy's hand where she kept twisting that one lock round and round, and kissed her on the cheek. Stan said, "Okay. So your mom isn't okay. But I'm here, alright?"

"What if she dies, Stan?" Wendy asked. Her voice caught, and Stan knew that the pretense of calm was all over. One tear ran down her face, then another, from the other eye. Then the waterworks began. He felt like a steaming pile of shit. The worst boyfriend ever. How was it that he knew exactly what to do when they slept together, but when anything else happened, he froze up? Wendy always took care of him. She always had. Even during her brief stint with Token and his brush with being a faggy little goth kid, she'd still cared about it. She made him soup when he was sick, calmed him down when he was angry, held him steady during his parents' divorce.

Now, here they were, and she needed him. Wendy _needed_ him. She needed a rock. Stan wasn't a good rock. He was more like a dirt clod, that crumbled in your hands when you picked it up.

Stan inhaled. He put his hands on either side of Wendy's face and wiped away the onslaught of tears with the pads of his thumbs. He hushed her, and hugged her, and held her there. He had a feeling that this marked the beginning of a rough patch.

Everything had been okay. Now nothing was.

**o.o.o.o**

This was definitely the most awkward moment of Kyle Broflovski's life. Shit, it seemed like with Kenny, everything was becoming the next, "most whatever moment of his life." It was hard to imagine that Kenny lived like this all the time, with peaking highs and terrifying lows. And now, here they sat on the McCormick's family room floor, buck naked and still tangled together.

Stuart looked like he was about to explode, volcano-style.

"Get the fuck outta my house, you fucking fags!" Stuart finally cried at the top of his lungs, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

Kenny scrambled up to his feet and held out his hands defensively. He glanced back at Kyle, who was still sitting dazedly on the floor, beet-red from embarrassment, and said, "Dude, are you stupid? Grab your shit!" As Kyle scrambled to put some clothing on his body, Kenny said, "Dad, calm your tits."

Which, apparently, was exactly the wrong thing to say. Because Stuart wound up his fist and flung it into Kenny's face, landing it squarely against his son's jaw. Kyle, who'd only managed to get into his coat and boxer, leapt forward between the two.

"Hey," he snapped, "Mr. McCormick-"

Stuart threw a punch at Kyle.

"Kyle, you fucking retard," Kenny sighed. He grabbed Kyle by the arm, and the two ducked past Stuart, around Kevin, between Carol and Karen, out the front door, and into the cold.

"Well now fucking what?" Kyle said, "You're not wearing anything, and I've only got my coat and my underwear on."

"Actually, that's my coat, Kyle," Kenny said. Kyle slipped it off, and despite Kenny's protest that Kyle could keep it on, he handed it over and gave Kenny a look until the blond pulled it over his shoulders. It didn't do much to cover Kenny's nakedness, but it was better than nothing.

And then, Stuart appeared in the doorway, holding a shotgun in his hand. He shouted, "Get out of here, you fuckin' fags!" He cocked the gun, aimed, and shot at Kenny. It didn't hit anywhere too bad—Kenny's shoulder, but it must have fucking hurt.

Then Kyle glanced down. "Kenny, I have an idea," he said. He yanked up Stan's bike from under the snow and ordered, "hop on the back, dude."

Kyle swung his leg over the seat, and Kenny dashed forward, clambering up onto the pegs that Stan had attached to the back wheel. And as Stuart cocked his shotgun a second time, Kyle kicked off and pedaled with all his might through the snow. At least it was the fluffy shit that Colorado seemed to mostly get, not the slushy, messy snow that plagued more humid areas.

It must have been a sight to see: Kyle biking down the street, through the snow, with all his might, wearing naught but boxers (which were embarrassing in and of themselves; they'd been a gag gift from Stan a couple years ago that he'd actually decided to put to use—leopard printed boxers), and Kenny, clinging onto Kyle's waist, his orange hoodie blowing in the breeze and all his bits and pieces veritably flapping in the wind—this, and that they were being chased by Kenny's alcoholic father and a shotgun. Heads turned and curtains opened at the commotion as they made their escape.

They bolted across the train tracks, and that was when Stuart gave up and began to trudge back home. But that wasn't the end of the humiliation. Butters was outside, shoveling the snow off of his driveway when Kyle and Kenny rolled by. Kenny even bothered to remove his hand from Kyle's waist and give the small blond boy a salute, "Top of the morning, Butters," he greeted. Kyle rolled his eyes. Butters stared after them, gape-mouthed.

Tweek, who'd been building a snowman with Craig (Craig? Of all the people to be building a snowman? What the fuck?), exclaimed, tugging at his scarf, "Oh, _Jesus Christ! _Did you see that, Craig? The underpants gnomes got Kenny!"

They crashed into the snowdrift in front of Kyle's house.

For a moment, the two boys just laid in the snow, practically naked and definitely breathless, and freezing as fuck, before Kenny sat up and offered Kyle a hand.

"Kyle," he said, "I think I just got kicked out of my house."

Kyle wheezed. He propped himself upright with his hands on his knees and gasped out, "S'okay, dude. You'll stay with me."

That was how they stumbled into the Broflovski house. Covered in half-melting snow, Kenny still limping, bleeding from the bullet graze in his shoulder, without any clothing but his hoodie, and Kyle, boxers only, missing his usual green ushanka, with a fresh black eye, courtesy of Stuart McCormick's epic right hook.

Ike was the first to notice. He'd been sitting in the front room playing on the Wii. He gaped.

"Um…" Ike started, "Why doesn't Kenny have any pants?"

Kenny flushed and glanced down. He reached over to the couch and snatched up an embroidered throw pillow, holding it in front of his cock, "Sorry 'bout that bro. Could have a waited a few years to see that, I guess." Kyle punched Kenny's good arm at that comment.

"_Ow_. Fuck you, Kyle," Kenny muttered.

"Oh my god!"

All three boys turned their heads and saw Gerald. He dropped the glass tray that he'd apparently been washing—judging by the blue rubber gloves he wore, and the soapy water spilled down his front side. The glass broke at his feet, but Gerald didn't react. He demanded: "What _happened_?"

Kyle and Kenny exchanged glances. Well, it was probably impossible to get out of this one without confessing the total truth.

Kyle exhaled slowly. He ran both hands through his damp red curls, and finally said, "Dad, I'm gay."

"What?" Gerald said.

"I'm gay," Kyle repeated.

"Huh? No, that's fine," Gerald says, "But that does nothing to explain, well…_this_," he made a vague motion at the two teenagers, who now- despite being back inside- were shivering.

"Um, can we get dressed first?"

Gerald stared at first, at the state of his son and his son's friend, and finally said, "Oh, holy moly, Kyle. Of course you can. I'll make you guys some cocoa, okay?"

**o.o.o.o**

They toweled themselves dry, first.

"That was anticlimactic," Kyle murmured. He'd donned pajamas; baggy plaid pants, a loose fitting tee, and wrapped a towel around his head. Currently, he laid back on his bed while Kenny went through his closet, still nude, looking for something acceptable to wear. Kenny grunted in response, and Kyle continued, "He didn't even care that I was gay. I mean, I didn't think that they would. But I thought my dad would at least, I dunno, like fucking react or something."

Kenny glanced back at Kyle. He looked…off.

"What's wrong?" Kyle asked.

"I'm jonesing, dude," Kenny replied, sounding shaky, his voice higher than usual, "I need my stuff, you know? Just something to smoke or take or—"

"No."

"What the fuck do you know?" Kenny stammered out, "I just- I just fucking got kicked out of my house. It's a shithole. I thought I'd be happy not to live there. But I miss my bedroom and I miss my weed and I...I'm homeless, Kyle."

Kyle pulled the towel off of his hair and strutted over to Kenny. He tugged a t-shirt out of the closet and threw it at Kenny, followed by a pair of basketball shorts. He said, "Kenny, as of right now, you're getting fucking clean. You're stopping this bullshit. You're gonna pull yourself together. Okay? Okay. And you're not homeless. You have a new home. It's right fucking here."

Kenny looked a little stunned. Kyle took the moment to pull him into a side hug, kissing his neck, gently. He said, "I'm not letting you do this anymore."

Surprisingly, Kenny submitted, "Alright." He was too world-weary to fight with Kyle. Kyle, who made him feel more like a human being than anybody had ever bothered making him feel before. Kyle Broflovski, who made him think that perhaps once in awhile, Kenny McCormick was actually worth having around. Worth more than cheap drugs and great sex and perverted jokes. More than a cock with good looks attached.

"Come again?" Kyle blinked.

"I said, alright. I'll try. But I'm not giving up cigarettes, motherfucker," Kenny scowled.

"Wow. I, uh, expected more of a fight, dude," Kyle admitted.

"I-" Kenny began, but he couldn't think of exactly why he'd agreed to Kyle's demand. He looked at his friend, the guy who'd just been the most considerate, big-hearted lover that he'd ever had. His head was cloudy, he realized. He needed coke. He needed a joint. He needed a cigarette and a beer. Instead, he just took a step forward and put his head on Kyle's shoulder. A moment later, he felt Kyle's arms wrap around him. He thought about why he might be okay with leaving behind the things he loved best- gratuitous sex and drug use. But. He'd just been booted out of his house. So it hadn't necessarily been a _home, _but maybe he'd naively thought that his parents wouldn't give a shit about his sexuality. He was their son. So they sometimes cared more about where they'd get their next score from or getting more beer than they cared about him. But they still, well, cared, right? At least a little? But that wasn't even the worst of it. That wasn't the worst by a long shot.

_I got raped._

No, he didn't want to say that. It hurt enough to hear in his head. _How could I have been so stupid? Why did I get so high? Why did I go to that party? _Kenny McCormick, the sluttiest whore that ever walked the planet. That was him. Maybe he deserved what he'd gotten.

What he _didn't_ deserve was Kyle. Fucking hell. Only goddamn Kyle wouldn't bother listening when he said not to mix feelings with sex. And only Kyle would provoke Kenny into breaking that rule, too.

Wait, what? Kenny's eyes shot open. He tore himself away from Kyle.

"Are you okay?"

"Goddamnit, dude," Kenny exasperatedly said, "I actually _like_ you."

Kyle gave him a look, "How…kind. We're only been fucking friends since we were still shitting our pants."

Kenny dragged his hands across his face. He lurched forward and captured Kyle's mouth in his own, clutching him by the jaw. He was rough. He knew he was. He was biting and controlling and angry. But when he finally ripped himself away, he said, "You fucking know what I mean, dude. I _like_ you."

He watched as realization dawned on Kyle. The redhead went, "Oh. Jesus Christ. I, holy shit. I didn't think I was ever going to hear that from you, dude."

"I didn't think so, either," Kenny murmured. He looked- among shaky- defeated.

Gerald's voice came from the other side of the door, then.

"_Boys—Boys? Are you ready to come downstairs? Your cocoa's getting cold,"_ he said.

Kyle and Kenny smiled at each other.

"Yeah, dad, just a second," Kyle called.

Kenny leaned up slightly, and kissed Kyle. Kyle kissed back. It may very well have been the best kiss that they had shared so far.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey guys. Sorry this one is so short! I had a really busy day today and was kind of sucking, so I wrote and then rewrote this. As always, thank you to my esteemed reviewers, MariePierre, TheAwesome15, and That Nixi Rose, who is super awesome. Oh! And alternate chapter track: Black Betty, by Spiderbait. I chose both songs cause of the chase scene, I won't lie. :P Haha. Comments/questions/crit/complaints/suggestions? I am open to all!**


	16. Let's Raise Hell

**Chapter Track: Heavy Metal Lover – Lady Gaga**

That evening was one of the most awkward evenings that the Broflovskis had shared.

Sheila came home from her hair appointment to see all her boys sitting at the kitchen table with cocoa and Kenny McCormick, all wearing various expressions of either seriousness, or shock. And why was Kenny McCormick wearing her Kyle's clothing? She knew because she never forgot something she bought for a very good deal—those shorts were most certainly the green basketball shorts that she'd snagged at Old Navy for a mere two dollars and seventy-six cents.

"What's going on, boys?" queried Sheila, hanging her faux-fur coat and faux-snakeskin bag on the hooks beside the front door.

The boys all glanced at each other, as if deciding who would be the one that should break the news first.

"Well," Gerald at last started, "Kyle's gay."

Sheila folded her arms and lifted a brow, "We already thought he might be, Gerald. Is that really all?"

Kyle put his face in his hands at that. Kenny laughed.

"Well, Kyle, would you like to explain to your mother what you just explained to me?" Gerald asked. He folded his hands under his chin and looked at his son expectantly.

Kyle rubbed his hands across his face and sighed loudly. Gerald shot Kyle a look and Kyle glanced over at Kenny before cracking his knuckles, and telling his mother exactly what had happened that day.

**o.o.o.o**

"Well, that was super fucking awkward," Kyle said.

Kenny shrugged, "It wasn't too bad, man. Your parents took this whole thing a lot better than my shit-for-brains folks did, in any case." He was laying out a sleeping bag on the floor beside Kyle's bed (per the Broflovski parents' command). His words came out jumbled, all scrambled and shaken. Kyle realized that Kenny was going into withdrawal. He knew that Kenny hadn't taken any drugs in almost an entire 24 hours. The guy must be having cravings like nobody's business. Plus, he hadn't smoked at all and couldn't access cigarettes. But naturally, he didn't want to bitch about it out loud. He would suffer in silence and then explode later.

"Dude, are you gonna be alright?" asked Kyle.

"Of course fucking not!" Kenny snapped, "I'm not going to be fucking okay. This _sucks._ I just got kicked out of my house, I need coke so bad that I feel like I'm gonna die, I'm fucking sore fucking everywhere, and I can't have a goddamn cigarette." He glared at Kyle, and with trembling hands, he peeled back the front of the sleeping bag, crawling in like caterpillar into a cocoon.

"I can go out and get you some," Kyle sighed quietly, "Cigarettes, I mean."

Kenny brightened considerably, but his quivering didn't stop. He said, "Dude, would you really do that? Shit, you're the best." His teeth chattered, but the blond smiled up at Kyle. It made Kyle hurt to see Kenny like this: at the mercy of his numerous addictions. But at least feeding one of those addictions would get him through the night, Kyle supposed, and so he laced up his green converse underneath his plaid pajama pants, and pulled his backup brown coat over his t-shirt, since he'd left his favorite orange one on the floor of the McCormick's family room.

He crouched over Kenny and said, "I'll be back in fifteen. Try to sleep or do something to distract yourself, dude. Just try not to think too hard." Kenny didn't say anything. He simply shivered. Kyle shook his head and stroked Kenny's blond hair before standing.

He called to his mother that he would be running to the store and was handing a short grocery list of other things to purchase—the usual staples—milk, some deli turkey and American cheese slices, and Ike's favorite cereal, Fruity Pebbles. Kyle stuffed it into the pocket of his brown coat and traipsed into the garage to the Broflovski's family car, a black Honda Accord.

Kyle wished that he hadn't suggested fetching cigarettes for Kenny. He wanted to go to sleep. His legs hurt from biking for his life earlier that afternoon, and for some reason, despite the irrationality of the notion, he felt like after he'd come out to his parents that simply everyone in South Park _knew_ that he was gay, they were all looking at him, and having Eric Cartman-type thoughts about what they'd like to do to the faggy Jewish kid. Plus, he didn't have his fucking hat. And so his riotous, red, curly motherfucking hair was everywhere and out in the fucking open. Like a goddamn pony show.

He kept his eyes to the ground and shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. He wasn't surprised to find that he'd left several gum wrappers and five dollar bill sitting in there—he never wore the coat. Ever. But at least he'd gotten a five out of the occasion.

With a plastic jug of milk in one hand, and Ike's cereal in the other, he slogged toward the deli, but stopped, when he spotted a familiar red and blue knitted hat…in the "feminine hygiene" aisle.

"Stan?" Kyle said. When Stan glanced up from two similarly pastel colored boxes he held in either hand, Kyle strode over. He asked, "Hey, are you alright? How's Wendy's mom?"

Only when he got close did he see the deep shadows under Stan's eyes. He replied, "She's really sick, dude. And naturally, we're driving back from the hospital and Wendy gets her period. She sent me to get something for it and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Wait, you're gay. Could you help me pick out something for Wendy? I don't know what the fuck this shit is. What the hell does it mean when it says 'with wings' on the box, anyway?"

Kyle made a face at his friend, "Dude, I'm gay, not a girl. I don't have a period, asshole."

Stan made an 'oh' sort of face, and looked back down to the boxes in his hands.

"But if it's that difficult of a decision," Kyle said, "go for pads _and_ tampons. Since you don't know what your girlfriend of _ten fucking billion years_ prefers." Kyle took the lavender box out of Stan's hand and replaced it with a yellow-and-green one. At Stan's dumbfounded stare, Kyle said, "What? I do this shit for my mom like ever goddamn month."

"Gross," commented Stan.

"I know, dude. I know," Kyle replied, "But wait, what's wrong with Mrs. Testaburger? I thought you said that she got into a car accident, not that she was sick."

If possible, the shadows around Stan's eyes went deeper, and he frowned, "She has a tumor."

"What?"

"In her brain."

"_What?_"

"The doctor told me and Wendy that it's only in the early stages of growth, so it's not too big or beyond help, but fuck, dude. Something needs to be done right the fuck away, or she's like gonna die," Stan exasperatedly explained. He moved the boxes he held to one arm and pulled off his hat, running an restless hand through his black hair, which already looked as though it had seen some abuse that day, "And now Wendy's on the couch at her house and she says that _she's_ dying. She took like a whole fucking bottle of Advil and holed herself up with a bottle of tequila and a DVD of _Friends_ reruns.

"And furthermore, what the hell did Butters witness while I was gone? I ran into him like five minutes ago and he said that he saw you and Kenny naked on a red bike, fucking prancing around in the snow. That wasn't fucking my bike, was it? Because if Kenny's unmasked dick has been anywhere near my baby, I am going to fucking burn it and make him buy me a new one."

"Well, his dick wasn't really _on_ your bike…" Kyle said. He checked the time on his cell. He had been gone far too long already, "Look, dude. I'm gonna have to text you. I told Kenny I'd be back in fifteen minutes and I've already been gone for twenty."

"Wait, is Kenny at your house? What the hell happened today?" asked Stan.

"I'll text you," Kyle repeated, and he walked briskly toward the deli to fill his mother's other demands before grabbing a pack of cigarettes.

**o.o.o.o**

"Dude, what the fuck took you so long?" Kenny demanded. He'd been pacing. Kyle could tell by the pattern of walking in his carpet, "It's been over a half an hour. I am _dying_."

Kyle tossed the pack of cigarettes to Kenny and said, "Chill out. I'm fucking here now, am I not? And I'll open the window so you can smoke by there. It's cold, but I don't want my mom to find you smoking in the house."

Kenny eagerly ripped off the plastic from the package of Marlboros and pulled one out. He realized a moment later, as a look of absolute despair crossed his features, that he didn't have anything on him to light the cigarette with. He asked, "Do you have a lighter or something."

"I have, uh, matches," Kyle said, deciding that he wouldn't mention that he kept the small box next to his "Summer Breeze" scented candle. To be fair, he'd purchased it to mask the smell of weed whenever Kenny came over to smoke with him. But. He'd continued buying the same kind even after they'd stopped smoking weed at Kyle's. He flipped the box of matches over to Kenny, who caught them, one-handed.

With quavering hands, Kenny lit the cigarette, put it to his lips, and drew in.

"Ahhh," he sighed, "Oh, thank you, Jesus."

Kyle opened his bedroom window, pinning his curtains to the side so that Kenny could sit on the window sill and put his feet on Kyle's bed. He sat on the mattress below and right beside the blond, who sucked on his cigarette and released a satisfied, noisy breath with every exhale. He was still shaking. Still stammered when he spoke. But at least he was sated for the time being.

Or so Kyle thought.

Kenny started moving his free hand up and down Kyle's back. Kyle gave him the side-eye. Kenny stuck his cigarette between his teeth so he could use both hands to peel Kyle's bomber jacket off and fling it away, somewhere on Kyle's spotless floor. He massaged Kyle's shoulders with the heels of his palms, and muttered, cigarette muffling his speech slightly, "Jesus, Kyle, you're tense."

"_I'm _tense?" Kyle turned around, brows lifted at Kenny's claim.

"Okay, okay, that's fair," Kenny admitted, the cigarette bouncing along in movement with his tongue as he spoke, "You know what would calm me down a bit?"

Kyle ventured a guess, "Wow, that's a tough one. Sex?"

"It would probably cool your shit, too," Kenny added, "Just saying."

Kyle pretended to consider the proposition, even though the answer was clear. Kenny needed fucking _something_ to comfort him, and if the cigarettes Kyle had purchased were not enough, and he could do something else, the solution was simple. Kyle shrugged his shoulders and plopped back onto his bed. He said, "Well, proceed, then."

Kenny stubbed his cigarette out on the window sill, much to Kyle's chagrin, and chided, "No, no. That's not a sexy invitation, Kyle." He clucked his tongue and went on, "Just for that, I want to try something new."

"Something new?" Kyle echoed. Why did that always sound ominous when Kenny said it?

"Yeah. Something new," Kenny said, assuming a sly grin. Kyle wondered how he pulled that off while so jittery and so deep into withdrawal. Kenny was always so suave, sometimes irritatingly so.

Occasionally, Kyle thought that Kenny was just built for sex, in every aspect. He had an amazing body—a _beautiful_ ass, veritable Greek god shit, that ass was—that blond hair that was always shaggy and somehow perfect all at once, his mischievous smile…Kyle felt himself get hard at the thoughts as he stared, and Kenny gave him a look that said _I told you so._

Kenny slid off of the window sill, bounced on Kyle's mattress, and landed on his feet (with a slight wince. He still had that weird limp). He offered his hand to Kyle, and Kyle took it.

"Where are we going?"

"Just your bathroom," said Kenny.

"My what?"

"Your bathroom," Kenny said again, "We'll have to be quiet, of course, but I want to fuck you in front of the mirror." He said this all so cheerfully. Kyle blushed and Kenny grinned impishly, before nudging Kyle toward the door to the Jack-and-Jill style bathroom that attached to both his bedroom and Ike's.

"Dude! What about my little brother?" Kyle asked, but Kenny kept herding him forward to the spaceship-themed bathroom (it had been decorated when Kyle was around Ike's age, and never changed).

"Didn't I just say that we would have to be quiet?" Kenny said. He locked Ike's side of the bathroom, and paranoid wreck that withdrawal was making him, locked Kyle's side, too.

Kenny guided Kyle so that his erection fitted against Kyle's ass. Kenny stared directly at their reflection in the bathroom. "See," he said, "Now…isn't…this…just…nice?" He'd begun to place kisses along Kyle's neck. His trembling hands drifted up underneath Kyle's t-shirt and stroked along his torso, over his collarbone, pausing to pay particular attention to his nipples, to rub across his stomach, to plunge into the front of his pajama pants, and into Kyle's boxers.

He took hold of Kyle's cock, teasing gently. Kyle groaned and relaxed back into Kenny's chest, which was warm. This was unlike the hand around his dick, which was freezing. It felt strange and wonderful and perfect all at once. Kenny bit and nibbled at Kyle's ears and throat, moving down to nuzzle his nose into Kyle's back, near the collar of his t-shirt.

It was brilliantly erotic to watch Kenny's attentions being performed in the mirror. Kyle looked on as Kenny bit lightly on Kyle's shoulder and withdrew his hand for a moment to remove Kyle's shirt. Kenny ran his hands over Kyle's top again, and said, "Just fucking look at yourself." Kyle did. He didn't see what was so special. He was paler than normal, though Colorado's constant sun had given a subtle golden tone to his sin. He had a few individual freckles here and there. He wasn't special. But Kenny thought so. And that felt amazing to know.

Kenny tugged Kyle's pajama pants down at the same time as his boxers.

Kenny whispered in Kyle's ear, "I like what you look like when I do this to you." And he returned to rubbing his calloused hands up and down Kyle's dick. Kyle gasped. His hand shot to his own mouth, and he glanced nervously at the door that led to Ike's bedroom.

Kenny soon shed his own clothing. They touched everywhere, licking, biting, each touch made with careful calculation. Then, Kenny bent Kyle down, and used his fingers as Kyle had to him earlier that day. He hadn't lubed up first, this time. It hurt, and Kyle had a feeling that Kenny had done that on purpose, just so he could watch Kyle bite down on his own hand in the mirror to stop from crying out.

"Do you trust me?" Kenny asked.

Kyle's eyes went wide and he glanced back at him, before answering, "I trust you."

"This is gonna hurt," Kenny whispered.

Without any more warning than that, Kenny plunged inside Kyle. Kyle bit down so hard on his bottom lip that a stream of blood trickled down his chin. _It fucking hurt. _Jesus Christ, what the fuck were they doing?

Kyle grit his teeth and held his hands in fists against the cool bathroom counter. He understood why Kenny enjoyed the mirror. He couldn't tear his gaze away as Kenny pumped in and out, leisurely at first, but soon he sped. Kenny bit Kyle's neck and Kyle glared back at him, hitting his fist against the bathroom counter to voice his displeasure. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he'd scream, and wake up not only Ike, but the entire Broflovski household.

The muscles in Kenny's arm's flexed as he moved up and down, up and down, up and down, at an incredible pace. He moved one of his rough hands to cover Kyle's right fist, and the other, to lower down and slowly move his hand along Kyle's shaft.

Kyle watched this all in the bathroom mirror.

Instead of their usual groans and moans and screams and cries, they both just whimpered and breathed and hissed. Sweat began to pour, and Kyle thought he might feel blood climbing down the insides of his thighs, but he was too concentrated on the fact that Kenny pounded harder and harder, until each thrust lifted Kyle a few inches into the air. Kenny's hand moved faster, too.

The biggest orgasm that of Kyle's Broflovski's career crashed into him, and was only prolonged as Kenny continued to propel into him, until the blond's own culmination washed over him in waves, and he withdrew. His semen trickled down the back of Kyle's thigh.

When Kenny pulled away from his body, Kyle collapsed onto the bathroom floor. He'd been fucked so hard that he couldn't even get up. Figured.

Kenny towered above him, murmured something to himself, and pulled a washcloth from the cabinet to the side of the mirror. He ran a little water over it and bent down, over Kyle. He asked quietly, "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay, asshole?" whispered Kyle, breathing heavily.

Kenny rolled his eyes and pressed the wash cloth against Kyle's inner thigh. He proceeded to wipe the blood and semen gently away. It was strangely thoughtful, the way he did it. Granted, Kyle was still mad about how little warning he had gotten.

Kenny helped Kyle to his feet, but being the Kenny had a limp himself, it was an interesting stumble to Kyle's bed. Both boys were exhausted, and entirely world-weary. Kyle felt like he never wanted to move again. Kenny couldn't stop twitching in desire for cocaine, though the sex had helped. The bedroom window was still open, and a few stray snowflakes blew in with the breeze. Neither boy noticed. They were too hot, blood pumping like fire through their bodies. Neither could work up the appetite to get close enough to spoon, but after a few silent moments, Kenny reached forward, and tucked Kyle's hand within his own.

That was how they fell asleep.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my amazing reviewers: MariePierre, TheAwesome15, That Nixi Rose, and TheNerds. I seriously love you guys. I told Nixi yesterday, but I always feel obligated to write more for y'all because you are the coolest people ever and the best readers I could ask for! FOREWARNING: The shit will begin to hit the fan within the story very shortly here. It's not over, yet!**


	17. The Odds Ain't Even

**Chapter Track: Snake-Eyes and Boxers – Firewater**

They got Kenny presents for Hanukkah.

He'd stared in utter disbelief when Sheila had said, "Which present would you like tonight, Kenny?"

He'd looked at Kyle in something close to panic, with a _what the fuck do I do?_ look on his face. He was already confused. He'd kept his mouth shut because he knew that the holiday was important to Kyle and his family and didn't want to look like an asshole by asking stupid questions, or accidentally swearing while the candles on the menorah were lit, or messing up a hymn, or really anything dumb. _And I'm pretty dumb_, he thought, and that being as it was, he was trying his best not to make an ass of himself.

The food was good, though. Gerald had done most of the cooking, and Kenny was certain he'd never tasted better _latkes_ in life. Okay, that was because before sharing Hanukkah with Kyle, he'd never even had _latkes_, but still. The Broflovskis were feeding him fried food and giving him gifts and making sure that he participated in tradition, too (Currently, as Kyle, Gerald and Ike were, Kenny wore a yarmulke).

Kenny chose a gift wrapped in gold paper, with a huge, flamboyant purple bow on top.

"That one was Kyle's idea," Sheila explained.

Kenny looked over at Kyle before he ripped up the gift. It was just so pretty on the outside…he felt a little guilty about ruining it.

Kyle nudged him with his shoulder and said, "Go on, open it."

Kenny did, but carefully. What spilled out in his hands was a new orange parka. Kyle explained, "It's kind of, well, I mean, it's not anything really exciting, but your hoodie's so beaten up, I thought…"

"Kyle, shut up," Kenny said, "It's perfect." And it was. It was probably the most damned thoughtful thing that anybody had _ever_ gotten Kenny. Sure, he'd gotten games and all sorts of fun electronic gadgets. And he loved them. Doubt not, he did dearly love his toys. But—and as pussy-ass stupid as this sentiment sounded, even in his fucking head—sometimes it didn't matter how cool it was. Sometimes it was just nice that he'd been, well, thought of.

Kenny felt like kissing Kyle, but thought that might not be appropriate. And he was trying desperately hard to be appropriate. Instead, he slipped the coat on over his old hoodie, and zipped it about halfway up his chest.

After Kenny had gone, Kyle opened his gift for that night (a new ushanka) and Ike opened his (the game Animal Crossing). The rest of the night was less reverent, and more celebratory, as they ate fried food, Ike forced Kyle and Kenny to play the _dreidel _game (which Kyle insisted he was too old for, but Ike had told him to shut up), and all three boys were given chocolate coins that Kyle had referred to as _gelt_, whatever that meant.

When they all turned in for bed, Kyle fell asleep almost right away, but Kenny found himself unable to even close his eyes, let alone give in for the night. He'd refused to take off the new parka, even when he slipped under the covers beside Kyle.

As much fun as Kenny had had that night, he felt a twinge of pain when he thought of his own family. In a few days, they'd be celebrating Christmas. Christmas at the McCormick house had never been particularly glamorous or heartwarming, but it had always been at least nice. His dad had always made an effort to drink and smoke a little less, and his mom made them real food. They had a couple present under the tree for each of them.

Kenny felt a little like an intruder on the Broflovski traditions.

He'd been clean for almost two weeks now.

It hadn't stopped being hard. His hands still shook when the idea of coke crossed his mind. He'd broken three plates and one glass while setting the table for dinner because of that. Sometimes he'd feel so desperate to get a fix that he would consider returning to his house just to collect his goods. Thinking of it now gave him a headache. Kenny didn't _want_ to think about it. He just wanted to be okay.

At that notion, Kenny blinked over at Kyle, who'd begun softly snoring beside him. His mouth was open, and a thin line of drool came down from the corner of his lips. It made Kyle look weirdly young. Like they used to be. Why couldn't they all just be nine years old again? All he'd ever had to think about then were tits and having fun.

He made a quiet _hmph_ noise, and drew his body up against Kyle's, tangling their pajama clad legs together.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny woke up earlier than the rest of the household, the next morning. Kyle's curtains were closed over his window, and so no light but a thin strip of sun escaping from the crack between the panels brightened the room.

He dressed in the dimness. He and Kyle were at least built approximately the same, though Kyle's legs were longer, and so his jeans were baggy on Kenny. Over his half-assed ensemble, Kenny zipped his new parka, which in the few hours that he had owned it, had become his favorite thing that he owned (not that he owned much of anything, anymore, being that anything that was his lay in wait back at his house. Kenny would hazard a guess that Kevin had already torn shit up and taken whatever he wanted of Kenny's).

When Kenny descended the stairs, he saw on the grandfather clock in the front room that it was only six thirty in the morning. He wondered why the hell he was awake, but knew that if he tried, he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep.

On a whim, he decided to walk to Tweak Bros and grab some coffee. He didn't often take time to think, but now that he had eschewed drugs from his life, he had too much time to think. He'd done a lot more of that fucking thinking lately. Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe he needed a hobby. But the problem with that was that he wasn't good at anything.

Except sex. But pretty much out of the basic mutual affection that he and Kyle shared, he'd been keeping his dick exclusively for one person.

"Oh! _Nrgh-_ Hey Kenny!" Instead of Mr. Tweak, Tweek was behind the counter, apron and all. It looked like he'd even made an effort (an effort destroyed shortly thereafter) to comb his blond hair.

"Hey Tweek, what're you doing here?" asked Kenny.

Tweek blinked a couple of times and answered, "I couldn't sleep! I came to help my dad!"

"Could I get, um," Kenny paused and looked at the chalkboards mounted about Tweek's head, staring at the sprawling lists of coffee-based drinks with ridiculous names, all printed by Mr. Tweak's hand in neat, all-caps handwriting and multicolored chalk, "an Americano?" At least he knew what that was, and he knew it wasn't one of the pussy, fluffy whipped-with-extra-foam and caramel things. Kenny may have begun to enjoy poking fun at such drinks more than he used to, because Kyle enjoyed them. And he wondered how everybody had known that he was gay…

Tweek cranked out an Americano like a boss. Kenny had to admit, the kid made damn good coffee. When he informed Tweek of this opinion, the guy stammered out an anxious thanks and turned a bright pink, but looked pleased.

Kenny didn't feel like walking back to the Broflovski's quite yet, and so he sat at one of the vacant tables outside of Tweak Bros. He sipped at his Americano and lit a cigarette. There weren't many people up at this hour. The few that were awake were at least ten years Kenny's senior and en route to work, since South Park High was on summer break, and no self-respecting student would be up at this hour. Kenny figured that he got a free pass, since he was neither self-respecting nor a student.

As he sat there in the morning cold, with the sun barely coming up, smoking and nursing his coffee, somebody he had not expected to see came over the crest of the hill.

She was probably walking to work. Kenny wondered if the Chevy had broken down again.

Carol McCormick stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted him. She and Kenny just stared at each other, before she decided to make the first move, and approached her son. Carol stood in front of him, her hands shoved into the pockets of her tattered, knock-off coat that she'd had for as long as Kenny could even remember.

"Kenny," she said.

Kenny exhaled a billowing cloud of cigarette smoke, and realized that his hands were shaking. He nodded, "Mom."

More staring ensued.

Until, Carol did what Kenny had not expected. She drew out one of the metal chairs from the table, and sat across from him. Carol took a deep breath and said, "Kenny, it doesn't fuckin' matter to me if you like men."

"I like women, too," Kenny said pointedly. And people that didn't fit the gender binary. But he didn't add that, because he didn't think that his mother would understand what he was talking about. Genderqueerness was a difficult concept to grasp when one was a member of the Tea Party. He dropped his cigarette butt onto the icy sidewalk and crushed it under his boot, before lighting another. He felt that he deserved it, with this weird shit.

Even the idea of bisexual seemed like it confused his mother.

But she said anyway, "Your daddy don't like it, but I don't care. You can like whatever, and you're still my baby."

This was awkward, Kenny thought. And way too touchy-feely for his taste. He said, "Alright, Mom."

That seemed to be an acceptable enough answer. Carol nodded at this. There wasn't any hugging, and there weren't any tears, but they did seem to have created a mutual agreement that they still counted as each other's family. His mother stood without speaking, and touched his shoulder briefly, before walking off in the direction of Olive Garden, where she'd be washing dishes.

Kenny sat outside of Tweak Bros for longer than he'd thought. His entire life was upside down, backwards and who knew what the fuck else. He had no fucking clue what was going on. Life was getting _comfortable_, and ironically, that unsettled Kenny. When the hell had Kenny's life ever been fucking comfortable?

By the time Kenny was ready to leave, four cigarette butts were crushed in front of his feet. He tossed the empty coffee cup into the wire trashcan beside the front door to Tweak Bros. He felt jittery. A feeling writhed around his stomach, something like nausea. He felt all off and strange, and fucking why? Because life was relatively _normal_. Who the fuck has that problem? He thought angrily. Him, apparently.

Kenny still did not feel inclined to return to the Broflovski household. He need to be alone, which fortunately, was fairly easy in winter in a small town, if you stayed outside.

He wandered around town without aim, weaving through the main street and then the crappy suburbs. Maybe he should go see a movie. He still had a few extra bucks that Gerald and Sheila had divvied out between Ike, Kyle and him, for Hanukkah. A movie would give him something to concentrate on other than the weirdness of his fucking stupid life. Christ, Kyle was right. Kenny needed to find a hobby that wasn't sitting on his ass and playing video games, as pleasant as that was. Kenny could just play video games _and_ think, and having so much to think about was beginning to annoy the fuck out of him.

He slogged up to the window at the theatre, and without glancing once away from his hands, he said, "One for, uh…Cars Two." Well, that was gay. But at least it wouldn't be two hours of depressing bullshit.

"Oh hey," said the ticket guy, "look what faggot it is. Missed me?"

At the voice, Kenny glanced up sharply.

His entire would crashed down around his ears the moment that he met the _meanest eyes he'd ever seen._

_ The meanest eyes he'd ever seen._

_ The meanest eyes he'd ever seen._

Kenny couldn't find his voice. He couldn't think of an insult to sputter back. He couldn't think of anything. All he did was turn, and run. The ticket guy, and Kenny couldn't even decide who the fuck the kid was, other than vague recognition, laughed as he fled. Laughed. Like he and his friends had laughed on that awful night.

Suddenly Kenny didn't have much to think about at all. All his brain knew was that he couldn't breathe, and that he wouldn't be okay until he had something to erase the pieces of memory of what had happened that night. In his head he was crying and screaming but he couldn't tell if he was actually doing these, too.

Anguish and hurt and horror filled him, and finally overflowed out through his eyes. He was crying. Kenny yanked up the hood of his parka and tightened it so that nobody could tell. Nobody would see. His feet were carrying him someplace and he couldn't tell, couldn't tell until he'd dashed across the train tracks while the signal that a locomotive was coming was going off. Couldn't tell until he'd crossed into the shittier part of an already shitty down. Couldn't tell until he was standing in front of his own house.

Stuart was passed out on the couch next to a pile of his own vomit. His siblings were no place in sight.

Kenny pounded up the stairs and burst into his room. If Kevin had torn it apart, he didn't notice. He could think of one thing and one thing only, and that was erasing what had happened to him. The sight of those eyes…everything that happened invaded his head. His protests. His raw screams. How much it had hurt, and Christ, it had fucking hurt. It had hurt so much that it felt like he was being torn in two pieces and left to die. That's what they'd done, his rapist and his friends. They'd left him to die. They had laughed.

Kenny ripped through his closet, tearing out old clothes and posters and his childhood baseball uniform, until he found what he was looking for. His backup stash, placed in an old shoebox decorated with Playboy cutouts and buttons and glitter that he'd made when he was ten. Kevin would have immediately thought of the sock drawer, but not of this.

Pills, all so beautiful and colorful and shiny, with his weed and coke and all things that were perfect in life. He ripped open the plastic baggie of pills and swept at least two dozen into his palm. He gripped them so tightly in his fist that his knuckles turned white, as one-handed, he rummaged through the rest of his closet and found his second most beloved thing, a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Kenny dumped the handful of pills into his mouth, and chased it down with two swallows of burning liquor.

_The meanest eyes he'd ever seen._

_ Laughing._

Why wouldn't they GO AWAY? Kenny _screamed_ at the top of his lungs, and cried. He tipped back the bottle of whiskey and chugged, chugged until the bottle was empty and his stomach was so full that it was on fire. He forced himself to keep it down, nothing had kicked in yet. Nothing was working. FUCK.

He took more. He'd overdose. And he would just wake up again. Fuck waking up. Fuck not dying. Fuck Kenny McCormick.

His bedroom door burst open and Stuart was in the frame, or at least as far as Kenny could tell. Fists went flying, then. Kenny just shouted and screamed. He didn't know what he was saying. He didn't care. Just go away, go away, go away, go away, he thought.

But soon, there was nothing.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny woke covered in vomit, but still alive.

It was night.

His cell phone was flashing.

He was outside, somewhere.

He didn't know where.

Kenny looked at his phone. Thirteen missed calls and six texts. All from Kyle.

_"Dude, where the fuck are you? You've been gone for hours" 9:23 AM_

_ "Okay man, I'm worried now, where are you?" 11:06 AM_

_ "Kenny, what the fuck is going on?" 11:34 AM_

_ "Please answer me" 3:45 PM_

_ "We're going to look for you dude. I'm worried" 5:11 PM_

_ "Please answer me. You're scaring me" 6:56 PM _Two minutes ago.

Well, then Kenny would just have to oblige the fucker, then wouldn't he?

Kenny typed:

"_its over now. just never fukin talk me again. im not worth ur time. and im not comin back"_

**o.o.o.o**

**So uh, yeah. The shit hath hitteth the fan. Thank you to my most wonderful reviewers, MariePierre (I gave you guys some good fluff on purpose so you'd have something happy before I completely destroyed it), TheAwesome15, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, and as always, That Nixi Rose, who continues to give me excellent advice whilst somehow managing not to hurt my feelings whatsoever. PS, I've changed many chapters based on her advice. So. Yeah.**


	18. Hide Behind Their Own Worst Fears

**Chapter Track: Float – Flogging Molly**

Not a soul in South Park had seen Kenny McCormick since December twentieth.

It was now graduation day. Okay, not truly, but it felt like graduation day. The seniors had been herded together to practice the order of their walks to accept their diplomas. Kyle stood between Stan and Butters while they waited for the teachers' commands on where they should stand in line and when it was time to go.

Stan was busy consoling Wendy, who stood on his other side, to notice that Kyle needed somebody to console him to. To be fair, Wendy was upset that her mom wouldn't be able to attend to official ceremony. Mrs. Testaburger would be in the midst of a radiation therapy session.

"Geez, Kyle, you alright there?" asked Butters.

Kyle blinked up out of his thoughts and said, "I'm fine." Which was a lie, but he didn't want to have to explain his feelings to Butters. He remembered when he'd pictured this day, when they were all fourteen and in their first year of high school. How graduation seemed so far away. Of course they'd thought that they would all be together, but they weren't. It struck Kyle down to the very core to remember fourteen-year-old Kenny McCormick. He'd been a weed-smoking prankster, sure, but he'd been a happy one. At least Kyle had thought so.

Kyle still texted Kenny from time to time. Or, he had been still texting Kenny. He never got a response. In March, he'd gotten one of those notices that the number he was texting was out of service. March seventeenth. He would never forget. At least when Kyle's texts had gone through, he could reassure himself that wherever Kenny was, he was okay. Well, some level of okay. Even if that level was merely 'alive,' it gave Kyle something to hold onto.

Kyle mumbled to whomever was listening, "I've gotta take a piss." And he went off in the direction of South Park High, leaving his friends out on the football field.

Kyle stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. After tomorrow, after graduation, he'd never see this bathroom again.

He looked awful. How did anybody else not notice? Or maybe they had, but they didn't care. Kyle had shadows underneath his eyes so dark that they looked like bruises. He'd let his hair grow out to an ugly-looking length. He didn't care.

And Jesus Christ, he was scared. He didn't want to leave this place. For most of his life, he couldn't wait to grow up and leave South Park, and now he dreaded just that. He felt that, so long as he stayed, he could be there when Kenny came back. Rationally, he knew that Kenny probably _wouldn't_ come back. It was one of those stupid clichés: Kyle's head knew that the next step was graduation, and moving to Boulder at the end of the summer, where he'd be going to school with Stan and Wendy and Bebe. But his heart was an entirely different matter.

He felt like his insides were being shredded apart, ripped in a million directions. He'd felt that way since December twentieth.

He thought of all the texts that he'd sent before Kenny's cell had been disconnected. He wondered if Kenny had ever gotten them. Most of them had been '_I miss you.' _Because he had. And he still missed Kenny McCormick, desperately.

Kyle and Kenny had been best friends and lovers. Maybe it had been stupid of Kyle to have thought that that would last forever, but he'd hoped for it anyway. He'd hoped that Kenny would come around and share a little more with Kyle than '_I actually like you.'_ To be fair, Kyle had said little more than that, too.

But he had thought so much more than that.

He had loved Kenny McCormick.

Granted, he loved Stan, too, but it wasn't in the same way. And if Stan had disappeared, he'd be just as heartbroken as he felt now, but _not in the same way._ Kyle was sick of feelings. Sick of being a pussy and sick of being the faggy Jewish kid. And he was damned tired of being sick in love for Kenny McCormick, whom he had not seen in almost five whole months.

The bathroom door opened.

It was Stan.

"Hey," said Stan, "you look like shit."

"I know. I feel like shit," replied Kyle.

"Is this about Kenny?" asked Stan.

Kyle replied to this with a look that said _Do I really have to answer that?_

Stan continued, "I miss him too."

"I wish he was here," Kyle whispered hoarsely.

"I do too," agreed Stan. He put his hand on Kyle's shoulder and went on, "But I want you to get better, okay? I know you haven't been drinking or any of the shit that Kenny got up to, but you need to snap out of it. Maybe that's a douchebag thing to say, but we're about to start college, dude. You can't start college like this. Hell, you can't graduate like this. Do you really want to look back and remember yourself like this?"

Kyle knew that Stan was right. And Christ, he wanted to just be able to 'snap out of it,' but he couldn't. Kyle choked out, "Stan, I love him."

"I know you do," answered Stan, and he enfolded Kyle in a tight hug. Kyle's shoulders shook with the effort not to make an ass of himself and cry into his best friends' t-shirt. Stan said, "I'm about to give a really faggy speech, okay? I know it isn't fucking easy to get over caring about somebody as much as you care about Kenny, dude, but you have to. You owe it to yourself to get better, and find a dude that deserves your ass, alright? Cause fucking frankly, Kenny didn't at all deserve you. He's a drug addicted asshole. You should have somebody that treats you with respect."

"He did treat me with respect," protested Kyle. That was when he started to cry.

Stan sighed, "No, he didn't. He may not have been an abusive fuckhead, but he obviously didn't give enough of a shit about you to give a shit about himself. You know what I'm saying? It's like, when you're with somebody, you have to take care of yourself, too. And he didn't do that, dude, he didn't. He didn't give a fuck about himself. When that shit happens, it affects more than just the person in question."

Kyle didn't know what to say, because he knew that Stan was right.

"All you can do is live, dude," said Stan.

Finally Kyle broke out of their hug. He turned back to the sink and pulled up the faucet. He splashed some water on his face to get rid of the awkward redness in his face that came from crying. Kyle rubbed his face dry with a cheap paper towel before asking, "When did you get all smart and shit?"

"I've always been like this," Stan said, "You're just a smartass prick, most of the time."

Kyle threw his crumpled up paper towel at Stan's face and flipped him off, but they both laughed. For a moment, everything was back to normal. At least it was as normal as it could be without Kenny McCormick.

**o.o.o.o**

"And now, South Park's valedictorian, Kyle Broflovski!" Principal Victoria introduced, starting a sparse round of applause from the crowd (except for Sheila, who shouted, "_That's my baby, everybody!"_).

Kyle's robes swished as he walked to the podium. His mortarboard was making his head sweat, and his freshly cut hair made his scalp itch.

"Hey everybody," he greeted, admittedly a bit nervous. The microphone screeched and the crowd groaned. Well, this was off to a great start. Kyle cleared his throat and began, "For some of us, it's been a great ride. For other, it's been a little bumpy. Sometimes it's been boring as hell, sometimes, it's been a surprise…"

He went on, reciting the sentimental speech that he had written and rewritten probably about seven times, because he'd been terrified of humiliating himself in front of pretty much the entire town of South Park.

"…I know a lot of us are totally psyched to get out of South Park. And okay, I'm included in that. But I want you guys to know that, no matter where you go, these are your roots. I'm gonna miss you people. Even Cartman, and that's saying a lot. In all seriousness, though, don't forget to visit. I know I won't. I can't wait to see what happens when we've all got a little college under our belts. Thank you."

Principal Victoria gave Kyle some serious side-eye, but said, "Thank you, for that, um, _interesting_ speech, Mr. Broflovski. We'll now proceed with the graduation ceremony."

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny traded a blow job to some random dude to hitch a ride back to Denver.

In a rare moment of lucidity, he'd remembered that the seniors at South Park High had been graduating. He'd wondered what had happened to his friends, to his enemies, even, but particularly, he had wondered what had become of Kyle Broflovski. He naturally had been appointed the valedictorian. He had a new haircut and looked nice in his graduate getup.

Kenny had exchanged a blow job to get to South Park, as well. Now, well, he felt as though maybe he had wasted his time.

It was as if he'd died again, sort of. Nobody noticed that he was gone. The sun was out and everybody was proud of their children, and his own parents had forgotten about him.

"So what're you doin' suckin' off ugly old men like me for rides, kid?" asked the driver. Bernie something or other. Maybe. Kenny couldn't remember, but he didn't care, either. The faces of the people he traded his sexual favors with for food and money or rides or whatever all ran together. They were mostly lonely creeps with no family and dead-end jobs. Sometimes he got other clients. Occasionally he banged his partner in crime, Cherri (her real name was something like Katie, but neither of them really liked talking about the past and how they got to prowling the streets of the ugly side of Denver).

Kenny pulled the backpack he'd nicked off of another homeless dude into his lap and said, "You gotta do what you gotta do. You mind if I shoot up?"

"Go for it, kid," said Bernie-or-whatever.

Kenny took out his needle and assorted heroin paraphernalia. He used a length of rubber to tie off his upper arm, flicked his vein, and with a grunt, inserted the needle into his skin. He sighed happily as sensation flowed through his body, and relaxed into the cheap faux-leather seats of this guy's truck.

"Ain't you a little young for that bullshit?" he asked, eyeing Kenny.

Kenny smiled crookedly and rubbed a hand over his face, "Prolly am, but does it look like I give a shit?"

"What're you doin' all the way out in the mountains, anyway, kid?" queried the old man.

Kenny shrugged, "You ask a lot of questions, bro."

"I'm curious," replied Bernie, "You're a good lookin' kid, is all. Don't you have a family?"

That made Kenny laugh bitterly. He couldn't stop once he started. He just laughed and laughed, until he finally said, "You are a goddamn _comedian_, dude. I wish I was as funny as you."

After that, they stopped talking, and Kenny sank deeper down into a heroin-induced bliss. Everything was perfect here, in this hazy place that drugs made. His favorite kind of trip was when everything was back like it had been when he was maybe fifteen. Everything was okay in that place; he was just a stupid, funny-looking kid with poor parents and a nicotine addiction. Sometimes he'd be dicking around with his best friends. Sometimes he was South Park's savior in his Mysterion costume.

Kenny wished that he'd shot up before he lurked at the South Park High School graduation ceremony. If he'd gotten high, he could pretend that he was graduating too. What a fun fantasy that would be. _Look at me, I'm not a total failure and now I'm going to college with my super best friends and lalalalalala. _But that wasn't him, was it? Nope. He was the kid that couldn't remember the last time he showered, and instead of wearing fancy-ass robes, was sitting under the bleachers wearing one very torn up and stained orange parka.

Kyle had new glasses. Or wait, did he? Were those his old ones? But no, they couldn't have been, because Kenny had Kyle's old glasses. He kept them in the pocket of his parka, where nobody would look.

Kenny missed his Kyle sometimes, in the rare moments of clear headedness. But then he washed that away with heroin. Good ol' heroin. Shit kept him sane. Yes siree, it did. He didn't know what he'd do if he had to actually think all of the time.

Probably kill himself, actually.

Since December, he'd killed himself fourteen times. Didn't wake up in his bed in South Park, anymore, though. He would wake up in the little cardboard hut he'd built in an alley, next to Cherri. They'd probably fuck and then they'd go to sleep and do it all over again.

He was just sad that he'd managed to survive another day.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey all. Many many many thank yous and creepy hugs for my spectacular review-crew: MariePierre, TheAwesome15, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, Guidy, and a lovely anon reviewer. You guys are the most awesome people ever, seriously. I won't lie to you, I hung out with my guy friend last night and showed him your reviews and went LOOK THE INTERNET LOVES ME. And that makes me all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Your encouraging reviews are what make me update every day!**


	19. No Poor Boy's Pot

**Chapter Track: Exegesis – Why?**

The five of them – Stan, Kyle, Wendy, Bebe and Kyle's sort-of-boyfriend Eli had circled up at The Laughing Goat in Norlin Library. School hadn't really officially started, and wouldn't for another week. But there was nothing quite like congregating over coffee, conversation, and in Kyle and Eli's case, an intense game of chess.

Eli was winning.

Kyle never lost.

"Check," said Eli, observing Kyle over the wire rims of his glasses.

"Goddamnit," Kyle muttered, and he moved his bishop to protect his king.

Bebe glanced over and whistled lowly, "Woooow, Kyle. I've never seen your ass get whooped at chess. You are not on your game today, babe."

Kyle flipped her off, and Eli moved his rook a second time. "Check," he said again, "Dude, are you alright?"

"Huh?" Kyle said, and then, "Oh, yeah. I'm alright. I just need more coffee." He laughed mechanically. Eli frowned at him. As much as Kyle's kind-of-boyfriend wasn't Kenny McCormick, he could still read people like Kenny had been able to.

Kyle actually had been thinking of the events of the previous night. Against his better judgment, he and Eli slept together. Kyle topped. He never did that, really, except for that _one time_ with Kenny, which had been weird, anyway. He wasn't used to it. He wasn't used to having sex with anybody but Kenny, either. It had been strikingly…boring. But he didn't want to say that, because saying such a thing to one's sort-of-boyfriend would be a dickhole sort of move.

Kyle didn't know why the idea of calling Eli his boyfriend bothered him, either. Everybody else referred to them as boyfriend-and-boyfriend, including Eli himself. They did shit together. Eli hung around Kyle's friends, and Kyle around Eli's…who weren't too bad, but nothing like his friends. They went to Elitches and got coffee and went clubbing and now they'd had sex. The whole relationship felt strange to Kyle, though. It felt kind of like he was watching himself from outside his body with the guy, and never being present. Like now. And he was losing at chess because of it. The only other person who'd ever beaten Kyle at chess was Ike, and Ike was a smart bastard.

Kyle took Eli's rook with his knight with a triumphant, "Ha! Take that, motherfucker."

This little bit of enthusiastic swearing seemed to put all four of his companions more at ease. Though Stan, being the perceptive fuckhat that he was, turned to Kyle occasionally with a _Do we need to talk about this? _expression on his face. Maybe Kyle would talk to Stan. He'd been doing a lot of that lately, since the day before graduation. Plus, he hadn't actually _told_ anybody about the sex-thing with Eli. Then again, Kyle suspected that Eli had been sharing about it.

After they'd finished their coffee, the group of (almost) college freshmen walked along back to the dorms, to chill out, maybe watch movies or drink the bottle of good vodka that Stan had somehow managed to attain.

Normal. Life was so normal. As soon as they'd left South Park, there had been no aliens, no whatever-from-another-dimension, no giant rodents, no abductions—in general, no weird shit whatsoever. And to think that the bulk of Coloradans thought that Boulder was weird. Sure, it was a college town populated by students, hippies, street performers and other people more on the odd side, but it wasn't utterly anomalous.

All they did was drink and play games and do shit that Kyle had always figured that normal kids did, instead of fighting of metal-plated squids from other dimensions that Eric Cartman summoned with black magic.

But in place of feeling normal, Kyle felt like something was missing.

**o.o.o.o**

Cherri had nice tits. That was probably what made her rake in more cash than Kenny did, every week. It had been tough, the week that she'd been thrown in the slammer for prostitution. Luckily for Kenny, if you looked normal enough (which apparently he did), naïve high school kids would give you loose change when they came to prance around Denver during the weekend. He did a lot of, "Hey guys, I'm a couple bucks short for a Jamba Juice, could you help me out?" Or Chipotle. Teenagers understood a need for a Chipotle burrito.

On the other hand, since Kenny evidently looked passably normal, he'd gotten himself into a spot of trouble, this afternoon.

He'd been strolling along one of the side streets off of Colfax, kicking a pebble with the toe of his tattered-to-shreds boots, when he heard the kind of _click_ that he'd heard many a time before. Kenny afforded this noise with an unaffected half-glance at his to-be mugger. It was a kid, like him. A kid that the system had fucked, like him. The kid looked high off of his ass, like him.

"Your money," the guy ground out between rotted teeth. His hands were shaking. Even if he was high, the kid was still jonesing for something, and clearly, had decided to take this desire out on Kenny.

"Fuck no, dude," said Kenny, turning to continue kicking his pebble down the sidewalk whilst searching for clients. He was a little less likely to find them here than if he'd been prowling Colfax, sure, but the Denver cops seemed to be cracking down around here. It was a pain in the ass. Literally—he fucking hated jail.

"_Give me your money_," repeated the mugger.

"I told you no, dude," Kenny repeated, giving the little rock at his feet a good shove.

"I'll kill you!" stammered the kid.

"Fascinating," responded Kenny, and he resumed his leisurely stroll. _Kick_, three steps, _kick_, four steps, _kick—_

_ CRACK._

The gun went off. The bullet missed any important bits, instead hitting Kenny in his right arm. He turned around and said, "What the _fuck_, dude? Learn to aim, asshat."

To this, his sort-of-attacker yelled, "Fuck you!" and pulled the trigger again. This time it hit. It entered through the back of Kenny's head and burrowed into his brain. He collapsed on the ground, annoyed that he would wake up with emptied pockets. _That bitch best not take Kyle's glasses,_ he thought, before he felt the soaring sensation that came with being dragged down into hell.

Kenny sighed. He had been here too many times in the past few months, and it never changed. It was gaudy and over-decorated, with glitzy columns of flame and people being tortured. Kenny waded through the mass of screaming and crying souls, until he reached the place that he was looking for—Satan's house. He rang the doorbell.

Apparently, Satan did not have any company that evening. He exclaimed jubilantly, "Kenny! Back already?"

Kenny initiated a fist bump and manly half-hug with Satan, and came in without being invited. He plopped down at Satan's white kitchen table, and said, "Yeah, some fucker mugged me. I'm guessing I'll be back in like two hours. What's your bet?"

Satan gave this some consideration, "I say three. Ten bucks?"

"Deal," Kenny agreed.

Satan was a nice enough dude, if you got to know the guy. If you hung out with him as much as Kenny did, for example, he didn't really do the torture thing. Torture really lost its sparkle when you were torturing a kid you'd known for his entire life.

Satan sauntered over to his refrigerator and inquired, "You want a soda or something? It's hell, so I've only got like diet Fresca, but it's not too bad."

Kenny shook his head, "Nah, man, not that shit. How's it been going anyway, dude? Same shit, different day? Anybody interesting down here lately? Or just the typical sinners?"

Satan shook his head. He removed a can of diet Fresca and popped it open, taking a seat across from Kenny. He took a sip, "You know how it goes. I've been waiting for you to come back, though, Kenny. I wanted to talk to you."

"Did you?" Kenny raised a single brow.

"Yeah," responded Satan, taking a sip of his soda, "Look, I think you should quit this heroin thing. You're showing up here a lot more often. And, you know, I like seeing you and all, but Hell's not a great place to find yourself so often. Don't you think you should get clean?"

Kenny made a face. Fucking really? Even _Satan himself_ wanted Kenny to get better? Even Satan didn't understand what he was up against here?

"Look, don't blow me off. Hear me out," Satan went on, "It's not an easy thing to do, but it's worth it in the end. You helped me with getting over Saddam, and now I want to return the favor. Cut this shit out. I'm serious."

"I can't, dude," Kenny responded, "I thought you'd get it. I die all the time. I just want to make the space in between pass faster."

Satan rolled his eyes at this. He replied, "Now, I can't claim to be an expert on Cthulhu, but I'm pretty sure he had a reason for making you immortal. He's an insightful guy. I'd know. We play poker together. Maybe you're supposed to spend your life with tasks a little more useful than being a hooker? Maybe you're supposed to be out doing something a little more meaningful than—well, this," Satan made a sweeping gesture over Kenny's disheveled and bloodstained appearance.

Kenny drawled, "This would be touching, if I was good at something. But I'm not good at anything, Satan. Except sex. Think of it this way: I'm making lonely dudes slightly less lonely, even if for just one night. Oh, and I'm giving Cherri a shoulder to lean on. Every hooker needs one of those."

"You could always find something that you're good at," said Satan pointedly, "I thought I was only good at torturing people and being a supreme dark lord, you know. But I took up knitting. It's been nice to have something to take my mind off of the daily bullshit."

Kenny laughed. He clutched his stomach and said, "That is so gay, dude."

"That would be clever, if I wasn't gay," Satan said thoughtfully, "Oh. Looks like you're fading out already, Kenny. Don't forget, I owe you ten bucks next time you die."

Kenny glanced at his hand. He was turning translucent. Back to the real world, he supposed.

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny woke with a massive headache, in the urine-scented alleyway that he and Cherri called home.

"There you are," Cherri said. Her speech was slurred, though not from drinking. From the look of her face, Kenny would say that one of her johns had beaten the shit out of her again. He empathized. It sucked ass when that happened.

In an ironic twist, Cherri was the first person in his life that had ever been able to see him fade in out between death and life. A heroin-addicted hooker, of course, would be able to do that. But nobody else. Not that he didn't remember fondly how Kyle had passionately told Kenny that he believed him, even if he couldn't remember the deaths. Kenny liked when he recalled that. It had been rather sweet of Kyle to have so much faith in him. Nobody else ever had.

"How'd you die this time, baby?" she asked, drinking in from the joint in her mouth.

"Got mugged," Kenny answered. He patted down his parka, and with a rush of relief, felt the outline of Kyle's glasses in the left front pocket. Good. His little piece of South Park was still with him. Unsurprisingly, his money was completely gone. He sighed. There would be extra work for him to do tonight. Hopefully he could find more cougars or guys that liked bottoming. He didn't often have the good fortune to find such folk, but he really didn't feel like taking it up the ass.

Kenny shuffled around and found his backpack. He always woke up from dying sober. Fuck, he hated that. That was legitimately _the worst_ part of dying so fucking much. He wrapped his scrap of rubber around his arm and tied it, tightening the loop with his teeth, before filling his body with sweet heroin.

"Bad luck, baby," said Cherri, sympathy in her fucked-up speech. She got it. More work for him.

"Yeah," he agreed, sadly. He stood up, unbalanced, and said, "If I wanna eat, I guess I'd better start working."

"See you later, sweetie," she waved a little, but her attention soon drifted from her companion to something else, judging by the way that she stared at the graffitied walls surrounding them.

So Satan wanted him to get clean, huh? Kenny shoved his hands in the pockets of his parka, gripping Kyle's glasses. He would almost consider it, if Satan wasn't wrong about one thing. He couldn't find something to replace heroin, couldn't find something to replace streetwalking, because Kenny McCormick was _good for nothing_. He had tried all his life to be good at something else, and had always failed. Wasn't good at school, wasn't good at drawing or writing or painting or singing or any of that creative shit. Wasn't good at dancing. Wasn't good at jokes. Wasn't good at games. Wasn't good at cooking. Wasn't good at equations and logic.

Just good at sex. Just good with people. Just good at not being dead.

He shook his head as a beaten-up red car pulled up next to him, and the window rolled down. Bad luck, bad luck, he thought. The guy in the driver's seat definitely looked like a top.

He slid into the passenger's seat and thought, _Bad luck, good-for-nothing, Kenny McCormick. _

**o.o.o.o**

**Good afternoon, my lovelies. Thank yous to my super-duper review-crew: MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer (who is behind on reading my chapters, bitch –it's okay we're irl besties derp-), TheAwesome15 (I'm sorry I made you cry! Well. Sort of since, that was part of the point, but oh well), xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, and Aimless. So much love and kudos to you all! **


	20. I'm With You All the Way

**Chapter Track: Blood Brothers – Manowar **

Maybe it was stupid to be down in Denver in the middle of winter break, but it wasn't snowing, and Eli had needed to go to the Denver Art Museum for a little research anyway. And so, Stan, Eli and Kyle had taken advantage of the first-Saturday-of-the-month is free. Being that it was free, the museum was crowded – but they had fun, even if Stan had gotten bored with the art and had decided to terrify the children at the modern 'Bubbles' piece, where you could jump around and play and shit.

They got escorted out by security.

"Whatever, I had fun," Stan shrugged, taking a sip of the soda that he'd gotten at the Burger King on 16th Street Mall.

"You guys ever been to Leela?" asked Eli, vaguely pointing to their left. At the blank expressions on his boyfriend's and boyfriend's best friend's faces, he went on, "It's really cool. I mean, not many people of the hipster shithead variety go. At least last time I went. Haven't been since summer. They have pretty good drinks and shit."

Stan shrugged and Kyle nodded his consent. Not exactly enthusiastic, but the trio walked down the way that Eli had indicated to, nevertheless.

Neither Kyle nor Stan had ever been to this part of the downtown area, although it was not far off from the places that they did frequent. It seemed to them like a hidden little pocket of Denver that few knew existed, despite its closeness to the popular areas. Sure, it looked slightly more sketchy than the posh 16th Street Mall, but it wasn't _bad._

They joked and laughed, until—

Kyle froze.

"Dude, what's wrong?" asked Stan. When Kyle didn't answer, Stan followed the line of Kyle's gaze, to the tables and chairs gathered outside their destination, the Leela European Café.

There was a guy slumped at a table, alone, smoking. He wore an orange parka.

"Dude, Kenny's not the only one that wears orange jackets," Stan said.

Eli's eyes narrowed. Though he'd never heard the entire tale of Kenny McCormick, he'd caught bits and pieces over his time together with Kyle and his friends from South Park. He'd come to understand that this guy wasn't a discussion topic that Eli was to be included in. It was a touchy subject.

"That's definitely him," whispered Kyle, "I'm going back to the truck."

"I'll go with you," volunteered Eli.

"I'm going over there," said Stan, "it could be anybody, dude."

**o.o.o.o**

Kenny liked Leela. It was a very creepy-motherfucker-friendly establishment. When he had extra cash, he always made sure to tip the bartender. Not just because they all seemed attractive (though that played into it), but because they let him putz around being as disturbing as he pleased.

Currently, however, he had no money, and so he decided to sit outside in the sixteen-degree weather, smoking a cigarette he'd bummed off some guy with faggy glasses that had no lenses. For whatever reason, hanging around inside Leela whilst penniless made Kenny feel guilty.

Fortunately, the cold seemed to be okay when one was tripping balls. Even the stupid hipster cigarette he was smoking seemed alright.

Some familiar-looking shoes came into his vision. Athletic sneakers, with blue and red stripes. He couldn't quite place where he had seen them before. He should have been able to, since it wasn't often that Kenny would recall a pair of shoes, even loosely, like now. He thought hard about where he had seen them. Only fleeting scraps of memory came to him: Running toward a giant monster, next to a front door, in between green converse and Kenny's combat boots.

_Stan?_

Kenny looked up.

"So it is you."

Stan looked good. He had a nice haircut. He looked fit and clean, and he wore a CU Buffs hoodie, instead of his old coat.

"Yup, I'm me," Kenny said, fully aware that he was utterly incoherent, but unable to stop it.

"…What _happened_ to you?"

"Me? What happened to you?" retorted Kenny.

"Goddamnit, Kenny, I'm serious," Stan snapped, "What the hell are you _on_ right now?"

"Heroin," stated Kenny, sarcasm lacing his voice, because it seemed obvious to him. Just how retarded was Stan, exactly?

Stan openly gaped. His mouth opened, like a fish, and he closed it again. A strangled sort of noise came out of his throat, like he wanted to say something, but couldn't. Then, he finally said, his tone desperate, "_Kenny._"

"_Stan,_" Kenny mocked back.

"Fuck, Kenny. What the _hell_ happened to you? What happened to make you like this? We all thought you were getting better. You'd been clean for like a couple of weeks. Kyle was happy, and you seemed to be happy, too. But you just fucking disappeared, and now _heroin? _Of all the things, heroin?" Stan didn't sit, or even stand, anymore. He began to pace. His face reddened. He was upset or something, Kenny supposed.

"Saw the meanest eyes I'd ever seen," he slurred out, "but the laughing was the worst part. They laughed at me after it happened, Stan. Why would you laugh after hurting somebody like that? They thought I was funny."

"What's 'it'? 'It' happened? What was 'it'?" Stan choked out.

Kenny inwardly debated. He realized that he wanted to confide in Stan, but he was embarrassed. No, worse than that. He was outright mortified. He was high, so high, but he started to hurt still. That sucked. He took all that shit so he didn't have to. Feelings sucked.

"Rape," he rasped, at last. Could he even call it that? It was Kenny's fault it had happened, anyway. He'd been so fucked up. He shouldn't have gone to that party, shouldn't have done so much shit.

Stunned was the only word usable to describe the expression that collapsed onto Stan Marsh's stupid, handsome face. Stan stuttered, "You g-got—"

"Raped," Kenny provided, "I think. I mean, I didn't want to, and he still did it. And his stupid friends held me down. And I can't remember anything but his eyes. They all laughed." Kenny's speech came out choppy and nonsensical, but he thought that Stan had maybe understood. He looked like he'd gotten the basic idea.

"Oh my God," Stan managed, "Oh, my God. Holy fucking Jesus Christ, dude. Why didn't you _tell_ anybody?"

"Cause it was my fault," mumbled Kenny.

"No. No, no, a million fucking times, no. What happened was not your fault, damn it. It was nobody's fault but your rapist!" Stan exclaimed.

Those were the words that did Kenny in. He hadn't thought of that. As simple as it seemed, that rape was solely the fault of the rapist and not the victim, it hadn't occurred to him. He blinked up at Stan, and felt his heart weighed down by regret and nostalgia and longing for old friendship. The feelings all came at once, pouring into him, pounding into him, unrelenting.

"But," Kenny protested, "I was high. I was drunk. I—"

"Dude, it wasn't your fault. I don't care if you were so high that your brain fell right out of your fucking skull. I don't care if all you were wearing when it happened was a thong and hooker boots. Holy fuck, Kenny. Nobody ever deserves that shit. Nobody. Ever. Deserves. Rape."

The scene had become slightly awkward. More than a couple onlookers openly stared at the duo—one looking like a typical, happy-go-lucky college boy whose fruitful future would be served to him on a silver platter, the other, a ragged mess of a human with hair so dirty it didn't have a color, and bloodshot eyes. Stan noticed the people. Kenny didn't. Still, Stan snapped, "What the fuck are you assholes looking at?" Before he heaved Kenny up onto his arm. Kenny stumbled and whined out a protest, but Stan said, "I'm taking you _home_. You're stopping this bullshit now. Too many goddamn people care about you to let you do this."

As Stan hoisted Kenny along, Kyle's old glasses fell from the pocket of his parka and clattered onto the pavement. Stan paused. He picked the glasses up, turned them over in his hand, and looked back at Kenny.

"Give those back!" Kenny wailed.

Stan handed the glasses back to his friend, who, due to the incident, had become hysterical. Stan asked quietly, "That's where those went? You had his glasses this whole time?"

Kenny didn't answer.

"So, you loved him too," Stan went on.

Kenny didn't answer that, either, but he pocketed the thick-rimmed glasses and stopped struggling against Stan. He eventually said, "You don't have to drag me. I'll come now."

"He has a boyfriend," Stan said.

Kenny shuffled his feet. He said, "That's good. I never deserved him."

The two were on the receiving end of several confused looks as they walked along to the lot where Stan had parked his car. Stan was angry at all of those people. He wanted to shout, _He's my best friend and he didn't choose to end up like this!_ But Stan didn't. Instead, he chose another, perhaps bolder action than simply yelling. He slipped his hand into Kenny's, and squeezed. Kenny's hands were fucking freezing, and bony as shit…but Kenny squeezed back.

Stan did not explain when he and Kenny arrived at the truck. Eli and Kyle were sitting in the back, both with knees up and arms looped around one another. He did, however, afford the pair a terrifying warning glance and shook his head, communicating a firm, _do not ask_.

Stan used his dad's empty suit bag to line the passenger seat. Kenny was absolutely fucking rank. Being as disjointed as he was, Kenny didn't really take offense at plastic being used to cover the seat he'd be occupying.

As the truck rumbled to life, Kenny glanced to the back seat, where Kyle was sitting with his nice-looking boyfriend. The two stared at each other for long, long moment. Kyle had to be so fucking perfect. He just had to look in perfect shape and perfect health with the perfect boyfriend. And that boyfriend, fucker that Kenny found him to be, extended his hand and introduced, "Uh, hi. I'm Eli. Pleased to meet you."

Kenny spat back acidly, "I'm not at all fucking pleased to meet you, _Eli._"

"Stop being such an asshole, fucker," Kyle warned, glaring.

"Stop being what? An 'asshole fucker'?" Kenny laughed, "As I recall, you rather liked me being an 'asshole fucker.' Specifically, yours."

Stan slammed his hand on the dash, just as the truck climbed onto the onramp onto the highway. He barked, "Shut the fuck up, both of you! This is bigger than your bullshit, so just stop it. I swear to God, I will fucking end you both if you utter another word to each other."

"Fine," said Kyle, petulantly, and he slouched into his seat.

Kenny said nothing, but he rolled his eyes and mimicked Stan with his hand.

**o.o.o.o**

Despite feeling as though the excursion from Denver to South Park would never end, it eventually did. After Stan dropped off Eli and Kyle at the Broflovski residence, the tension in the truck died down. Stan didn't want to have to discuss the words that had been exchanged between Kyle and Kenny, but fortunately, it seemed that Kenny was even less enthusiastic about having a chat than he.

At the moment, Stan was living with his dad—his mother decided to have a vacation with Liane Cartman in honor of turning forty-seven. This really translated to: I want to go to Florida, 'just because.' But Stan didn't mind. His dad hadn't really mellowed out over the years, but he was a decent guy. And his girlfriend wasn't that bad. It was a comfortable situation, at best. But not bad at all.

Plus, Randy Marsh knew when maturity was called for.

And it was certainly called for when his son came into the house, toting Kenny McCormick along with him.

"Dad," announced Stan, "Kenny's gonna stay the night."

"Um, okay," Randy said, eyes sweeping over Kenny, who really had never looked more like shit than he did then. Plus, the guy smelled absolutely _rancid_. A shower was the first item on the agenda that night, Stan decided.

And so, Stan got Kenny as settled as possible. He got out a couple older towels and a fresh set of clothes, placing them on the bathroom counter. Stan said, "After you get showered and shit, you can hang in my room, play Xbox or something. Or if you're hungry, it's my dad's place, so we've got junk food fucking everywhere. Um, I guess if you want a meal, we have Spaghettios?"

Kenny coughed. He said coarsely, "Thanks, Stan. I…thank you."

As soon as Stan exited the bathroom and heard the shower start, he returned to where his dad had been sitting at the tiny, shabby-looking kitchen table where Randy sat. Everything about Randy Marsh's house said 'bachelor pad.' There were posters of women in bikinis, a beer bottle cap collection embedded into the kitchen ceiling, a couple of guitars with broken strings, and the biggest action movie collection known to man. Or so Stan thought.

Stan lowered himself into one of the mismatched chairs at the table, across from his father.

"Is he…okay?" Randy asked tentatively.

"Nope," stated Stan. He tried to decide how to ask his dad for help. Stan couldn't help Kenny by himself. Despite being totally awesome (in his opinion), Stan was just a stupid kid. And he didn't think that that stupid kid could help an even stupider kid. Stan sighed, "I need you to help me find a treatment center for him."

"Treatment for what?" asked Randy, though it looked like the man did not want to know.

Stan swallowed. He mumbled, "Umheroinaddiction."

"Come again, Stanley?" Randy lifted his brows, sounding eerily like Sharon.

Stan cleared his throat and repeated, "Heroin addiction."

"My God," managed Randy.

"I know," Stan said, "I know. But he needs help, and I'm the only one left that even will help, Dad. His parents don't give a shit and Kyle's being a retard right now. So, I have to help him."

Randy nodded. He stood, and placed his emptied bowl of Spaghettios in the sink, where a pile of dishes had evolved into a veritable tower of grime. They should maybe get around to those…

Randy took his same seat and agreed, "It looks like it's up to us two, then."

**o.o.o.o**

Stan had woken that morning to find Kenny with his head in the toilet, passed out from vomiting so much. Already, he was going into withdrawal. Now, they were in Stan's truck—though Randy was driving, and Stan had opted to sit in the back with Kenny, so he could hold his hand and keep assuring him that it would be okay.

Kenny had consented to come to the center that Randy and Stan had decided upon the previous night, but only after an hour and a half of coaxing and cajoling and eventual pleading from his best friend.

Randy pulled the truck into a dirt lot.

The three unloaded, Stan still gripping Kenny's hand, and with the other, carrying a duffel bag of his own clothes that he'd decided to give to Kenny. Kenny still wore his disgusting orange parka. He'd allowed it to go through the washing machine, but refused outright to give it up.

Kenny also still had Kyle Broflovski's glasses in the parka's pocket. He thought that Stan didn't know.

Stan did.

For a moment, Kenny just stared at the building before them. It had a certain Western charm: It was built to look sort of like a hybrid of a log cabin and a farmhouse. There were horses in a corral off to the side. A couple of guys around his age were outside kicking around a soccer ball and laughing, in spite of the cold winter air.

There was a rickety-looking fence that ran all around the property. At the arched and gated entrance, a wooden sign swung in the dusty breeze. The chains holding it up creaked.

_Coyote Ridge Ranch_, it read.

So this would be Kenny's home for the next six months.

**o.o.o.o**

**Okay, first off, I'm really sorry if this chapter is crappy. I had a total and complete mental crisis last night, and so I am absolutely exhausted. Second, as always, big, huge thanks to my review-crew (may you feel my undying love burn for you): TheAwesome15, MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, and xXxDonnieDarkoxXx. Is it creepy that I have your usernames saved in my spell check? Lol. Please give me constructive crit if you can! Also, though most of the places in the story are either real or in the show, 'Coyote Ridge Ranch' is totally made up. Oh, AND! The chapter track is **_**extremely**_** cheesy. I STILL LOVE IT. **


	21. Laying Down in the Devil's Lair

**Chapter Track: Baptized by Fire – Spinnerette **

The first three days had been the worst. Kenny hated _everybody,_ and though he'd have liked to keep to himself, he was forced to share a room with three other teenaged dudes, all of whom annoyed the living shit out of him. The guy on the bunk on top of his was Angel Gutierrez, a really, really irritating Hispanic kid whose height topped out at about five foot one. In the other bunk, there was some constantly shaking ginger kid, Teddy, and one of those silent-and-terrifying types, Jess.

And thus, he was stuck, despite getting a daily dosage of methadone, getting sweats, shivers, fits, and all other varieties of humiliating symptoms of withdrawal. Mostly, he just sat in his bed, on the flat, not-entirely-comfortable mattress, glowering. Except when – Christ help him—they forced to participate in _activities_. This happened far more often than Kenny would have liked. He hated it here. He fucking loathed motherfucking Coyote Ridge Ranch.

Eight AM: The entire institution was woken via intercom and dragged to breakfast, which was a buffet of crappy, ill-cooked food. Actually, Kenny didn't so much mind the food as he did being forced out of bed at such an ungodly hour of the day. He thought of how much Kyle would hate breakfast, though. They only had margarine for the toast. Kyle was a strictly real butter only kind of a guy. It also annoyed Kenny that he knew that.

Ten AM: Group therapy. Kenny despised this, for obvious reasons. He refused to speak during group.

Eleven AM: Music class. _Music fucking class_. Just another thing that Kenny was excellent at failing. The worst part? He had been late for his first music class, leaving one instrument.

A banjo.

A goddamned banjo.

He found this degrading. As if he couldn't get any more hick-ass white trash than he already was.

The worst part was that he'd been discovered by the other patients at the center—a long, _long_ time ago, when Kenny had been like ten or some shit, he'd sort of learned how to play the banjo. In fifth grade music class, he'd picked the instrument up as a joke and pretended to play for the amusement of Cartman. Kenny had unearthed a horrifying knack for playing the banjo that day.

Fucking Angel fucking Gutierrez had even clapped and told Kenny to play some more.

It was like God said, "Let me make a really stupid kid, with a poor, crappy family, and make him good at two things: Sex, and playing the banjo. And then let's laugh at him. Because that will be really fucking funny."

At this thought, Kenny glared skywards.

Twelve PM: Lunch. More ill-cooked food.

One Thirty PM: One on one therapy. He refused to speak during this as well. His preferred tactic was to slouch on his therapists couch, cross his arms, and scowl more.

Two Thirty PM: Free time. Kenny used this time to shower, and then sit in his bed and continue to scowl.

Five PM: Dinner. Fucking pasta every goddamn night.

Six PM: Medication.

Six Thirty PM: Arts and crafts. Yes, arts and effing crafts. It was supposed to be therapeutic, or something. At least this gave him a mild distraction from being so miserable and spending his time jonesing for heroin. He usually drew stick figures in A) varying sexual positions, or B) killing each other, utilizing the most creative and gory method of murder possible. He'd recently been accused of drying out all the red Crayola markers.

Seven Thirty PM: Free time. Since at this point Kenny had probably already showered, he sat in his bed more, and scowled even more.

Nine PM: Bedtime. That early. Thus far, Kenny hadn't really been able to sleep. Instead, he would fight off the shakes, get up to hurl into the toilet, or watch the red numbers on the alarm clock next to Teddy's bed change. Sometime around three in the morning, he'd finally give into a fitful sleep, which would last up to a few hours. From there, he would fade in and out until it was time to get up again.

**o.o.o.o**

"We should form a band," suggested Angel, looking hopefully over at Kenny, who was sitting in his assigned plastic chair glumly, with the banjo sitting in his lap.

"No."

"Why not?" Angel pressed.

"No."

"Aww, c'mon McCormick," he whined.

_Day Five,_ Kenny thought, _I still hate absolutely everything, and now the short kid wants to form a band with me._

"No!" Kenny exclaimed.

"J-Jesus, dude," Teddy said, "You're a giant d-dickhead."

Kenny responded to this accusation with his middle finger. To discourage anybody else from talking to him, he began strumming on the banjo he held. His fingers were clumsier than he remembered, probably because of the constant shaking. Well, that, and he'd only actually played the banjo for like a year and half. He'd gotten lazy in the sixth grade and just stopped going to his lessons. It was kind of nice that Mr. Mackey had found him a teacher willing to school him _gratis_, though.

Oh, Jesus. Now he was recognizing people's good deeds.

Fuck rehab.

He _hated_ feelings.

Still he kept on, concentrating on the twanging instrument instead of his irritating companions. His roommates were the only ones that tried talking to him. The rest of the population of Coyote Ridge Ranch had learned quickly that Kenny did not want to be bothered. He put one-word sentences into play, and if that didn't work, he swore at them, or shouted. Those usually worked, but not with his fucking assholes of roommates. Okay, more just Angel and Teddy. Jess never said anything. He just stared at Kenny sometimes, in an off-putting sort of manner. Why did nobody badger that guy about talking to them? Jess spoke even less than Kenny did, and Kenny was striving his damnedest to never have to open his mouth.

"Dammmn, bro," Angel let out a low whistle as he watched Kenny play (sort of), "You're good man. Why can't we form a band?"

"Because I fucking hate you," Kenny provided.

"I'm impossible to hate," Angel retorted, "I've got so much charisma it shines out my ass, man."

Kenny snorted.

Later, after Kenny had glowered his way successfully through another session of one-on-one therapy, he stepped into the showers. The showers made some of the other guys uncomfortable. They were communal, with the bare minimum of privacy: a tiled half-wall between each showerhead. Concrete floors made up the entire room. He'd discovered that each guy assigned to the same shower room had a specific time that he liked to bathe, and used the information to have a precious seven minutes to himself.

He'd been using that seven minutes to cry.

Nobody could tell unless they stared really closely. Kenny turned his shower water to scalding so it looked like he'd just turned his face pink with the heat.

He didn't know the exact reason why he felt the need to cry. Sometimes he wasn't upset or having cravings or anything at all. Sometimes he just wanted to. Occasionally, he'd indulge himself and throw a private temper tantrum. Yesterday he'd kicked the tiled shower wall so hard that he'd managed to rip of the toenail on his big toe, and start gushing blood everywhere. This included the floor of the bedroom, which he had bled all over when he'd stalked in cursing up a storm.

To be fair, the bedroom floor already had a fair share of curious-looking stains in the cheap carpeting.

Kenny had been lucky that the only one of his roommates in at the time had been Jess, who was reading some book from the mini-library. Kenny had yet to see the guy without a book in his hand, or at least nearby. Sometimes it seemed like new books magically appeared in Jess' hands. Jess hadn't even glanced up from reading when Kenny swore his way into the bedroom, wearing nothing but a towel and an expression of absolute fury.

Today he felt less inclined to throw a fit, mostly because his toe still stung underneath its bandage. But he did cry again. Very quietly. He didn't really like hearing himself cry. It made him feel like some stupid pussy that couldn't keep his shit together.

…Which he couldn't. But it was the concept.

About halfway through his third day at Coyote Ridge Ranch, he'd started to miss his old life. Maybe _miss_ wasn't the right word, though. Missing something doesn't typically cause one to cry as subtly as possible in the shower. It was like—he struggled for the right word—it was like he _yearned_ for his old life. That was a fancy fucking word, there. Something Kyle would use. And it was the right word, too.

Kenny wanted his friends. He wanted to thank Stan for putting up with his bullshit. Stan was a good best friend. He'd kind of overlooked that.

And Kyle.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Kyle wouldn't get out of his fucking head. The guy was permanently damn stuck in Kenny's mind.

This was probably what kept making Kenny cry in his seven minutes of his privacy. Nobody had given much of a damn about Kenny, until Kyle. Except Stan, of course, but the damn that Stan gave about Kenny was a different kind of damn than Kyle gave. Or had given. Whatever. It seemed to Kenny that Kyle had gotten over…whatever the thing was that they'd shared. As well Kyle should, he supposed. Kenny was a giant shithead and didn't exactly deserve the friends he had. He knew that.

Kenny switched off the shower water. He wrapped one of the stiff, standard-issue white towels provided by Coyote Ridge Ranch around his narrow waist and splashed his way across the puddles in dips in the concrete floor, to the sinks and the vaguely foggy mirror. He rinsed his hot face off with cold water.

Kenny used the heel of his hand to wipe part of the fogged mirror clean. He looked like shit. It was to be expected. But he looked as though he was getting a little better. That was nice.

He returned to the bedroom. Thank God, Angel was not present, but Teddy and Jess were. Teddy was listening to some of his pussy indie music (It's _Bon Iver_, asslicker. You just don't appreciate good music") and air acoustic guitaring on his bed. Jess, unsurprisingly, had a book in his clutch. He raised his eyes briefly and gave Kenny a nod.

Kenny lifted a brow. Jess didn't usually take the time to acknowledge his existence.

Kenny tossed his towel aside and dressed in Stan's castoffs. He felt out of place in Stan's clothes. What was _weird_, though, was that he felt like the Jess kid knew that the clothing didn't belong to him. It was the way that the dude stared. He just seemed too perceptive for Kenny's liking.

"You should try reading."

Kenny swiveled around.

Jess was looking at him.

"I fucking hate reading," Kenny said, because he was too stunned by the fact that Jess had spoken actual words to continue his one-word sentence streak.

"I could change your mind," stated Jess. That was all he said, though, before he returned to the book. His eyes darted across the page at an impressive speed.

Kenny found himself wondering what Jess was even in rehab for.

However, Kenny did not bother asking this, and he did not bother continuing the conversation. He laid back on his bed, which, while uncomfortable, was better than any place he'd slept in over a year. Cardboard and pavement were less than ideal places to find oneself spending the night.

His mind drifted back to South Park. Back to his friends back home. Back to Stan, and definitely back to Kyle. He had to remember to thank Stan. And he'd prove that he was grateful by getting through this rehab shit. He'd do something with his miserable life. Even if that thing was just working at a fast food joint and coming home to a crappy apartment, he'd live his life. He hated feelings, but some of them felt nice. Like how a bittersweet twist made his chest contract, when he thought of Kyle Broflovski.

The feeling sucked and felt perfect all at once.

Kyle had bathed him, that once.

And when Kenny had asked for sex, he'd said no.

No, he had said. Because Kenny wasn't in his right mind.

Nobody had ever done that before. Everybody he'd ever slept with didn't care what shit he was on or how much he'd drunk, they just cared that they were getting laid. And he hadn't cared either. But Kyle had, the weird motherfucker.

"W-whatcha thinking about, dude?" asked Teddy, who was still listening to his stupid music.

Without thinking first, Kenny answered, "Love."

Both boys turned their heads to him then.

"What?" he shrugged, "Don't tell me you don't know what that is."

"I didn't think _you_ did," was Teddy's response.

"I didn't think I did either," said Kenny.

It was the truth. But he did know what it was.

And Christ, that _sucked_.

**o.o.o.o**

**Weeeellll, since I love you guys, here is another for today. A round of applause for my reviewers: MariePierre, TheAwesome15, and this beautiful anon that keeps leaving me lovely messages. You guys are the shit, really. REALLY. Suggestions/comments/questions? Let me know! And don't be shy about telling me what you'd like to see. :) **


	22. Ruthless and Aimless

**Chapter Track: The Beat That My Heart Skipped – Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip**

"So, wait," Wendy whispered, textbook before her utterly forgotten, "he was on _what_?"

Stan replied under his breath, "_Heroin_. Heroin! I feel so shitty, Wends."

"But you and your dad paid for his rehab, right?" Wendy went on.

Stan shrugged. He leaned behind him and removed his contraband Mountain Dew from his messenger back and, after assuring that there were no librarians in sight, took a sip. He replaced the bottle back in his bag and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before answering, "I had to beg him to go. I shit you not, I got on my knees and -"

Bebe snorted from the end of the table, where she'd been playing with her iPhone instead of studying, which had been the original intent in mind when they'd come to the library. She chuckled, "Got on your knees. Hahaha."

Stan gave Bebe the middle finger and went on, "I actually got down on my knees-" Stan ignored Bebe's second derisive snort, "-and pleaded. He didn't want to go. What if he like, runs away, or something?"

"He wouldn't," contributed Kyle, who, throughout the duration of the conversation about Kenny, had gotten increasingly more irritated, "Now will you assholes _shut the fuck up_? I have an exam in two days, I can't afford to fuck around." Even with the glare of the fluorescent lights reflecting in the lenses of Kyle's glasses, Stan could see Kyle's death glare.

The guy had nosedived straight from heartbroken to do-not-speak-Kenny's-name-in-my-presence. Stan wondered if that was his fault. He'd consoled Kyle more than a few times on the matter, always clucking about 'more fish in the sea' and 'Eli's a great guy' and whatnot. His reassurances to Kyle had eventually transformed into regurgitated platitudes, but maybe Kyle had taken them to heart. He was doing a lot of taking-things-to-heart in regards to Kenny McCormick.

"Dude, Kyle, since when have we actually gotten any studying done when we decide to have a study sesh?" Bebe asked this without looking away from her stupid phone. She was playing one of those pointless but addicting apps, 'Fruit Ninja' or the like. Every time she moved her hand across the screen, her flawlessly manicured nails made a tiny tapping noise that broke up the awkward silences.

Wendy said, "I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Kenny got so hardcore into that shit."

Stan thought of _why_ Kenny had done it. Guilt and disgust washed over him like lukewarm bathwater. He wanted to tell Kyle what had happened to Kenny, but knew that he couldn't. It wasn't his story to tell. Getting _raped_ wasn't fucking something that you passed on, like a rumor about who sucked off whom, or who was seen doing this, or that, or the other thing. That was Kenny's story to tell, and Stan had a feeling that Kenny wouldn't be ready to tell Kyle for some time. It was something in the way that Kenny had said, "_Good. I don't deserve him,_" after being told that Kyle had a boyfriend, that had unnerved Stan.

Stan didn't want any of his friends to hate themselves that much. He was so fucking sensitive to this bullshit. It was times like these that made Stan wish that he had a magical fucking friendship wand or a do-over button, so he could fix his friends' hardships. He loathed watching them have to suffer through shit alone. He knew that sometimes a shoulder to lean on didn't cut it, but he wished it could. That was all that Stan had to give, most of the time.

Stan murmured back to Wendy, though not before casting a cautious glance at his best friend, "I can't…really say. But Kenny's had shit rough. So, I guess I wouldn't have done the same, exactly, but I get why he did."

These whispered words made Kyle look up from his schoolwork. He stared long and hard at Stan, scrutinizing. Stan could tell that Kyle wanted to ask, but due to psychic-best-friends intuition, knew that Stan wouldn't say. The redhead frowned into his textbook.

This fucking sucks, Stan mused.

**o.o.o.o**

It was one of the more shameful things that Kenny had done.

This was saying something, since Kenny had an assload of shameful things under his belt.

But no, this was by far the worst.

He had taken the banjo. He had, of his own accord and under absolutely zero duress, waltzed into the music room, and filched the banjo. Why? Because he wanted the fucking banjo. He _wanted_ to play it. Kenny McCormick's banjo was like Satan's knitting: that thing you were inexplicably good at and even less explicably enjoyed doing.

He was now sitting with said banjo on his lowly bunk, strumming gently and humming along while his roommates all stared.

"What?" Kenny finally snapped. He scowled at the three of them.

Jess shrugged and went back to his reading. It was a different book again, already.

Teddy stammered out, "You p-play really well, dude. Like r-really fucking well."

Angel put in, "Why is it that we can't have a band, dude?"

"Because I hate you," Kenny said, for what felt like the millionth time. Though, if Kenny were to be completely honest (and he would never admit this out loud), Angel had begun to annoy him less and less as time went by. He hadn't ever spoken directly to the kid about it, just heard his abridged "How I Ended Up In Rehab" story in group therapy, but Angel had begun, for lack of a better word, to _impress_ Kenny with his tenacity. Or stupidity, depending upon how one viewed it.

Angel Gutierrez had apparently attempted to kill himself, approximately six times. Kenny at first found himself wondering how one managed _not_ to kill themselves, especially after so many tries. But, to be fair, Kenny did die with astounding regularity.

Angel had grown up without a mother and a shithead of a father, down in the super-sketch area of Aurora, Colorado. At sixteen, he had a two-year-old that currently lived with his grandmother because the mother of said two-year-old had skipped out on them. All this struggle, and Angel _could_ kill himself, but decided not to try anymore. He'd decided to go to rehab to try and get better for his daughter.

If Kenny was Angel Gutierrez, he'd be dead, for sure. He'd probably have offed himself as soon as he found out that he'd knocked up a chick at fourteen. So kudos to the guy, for at least trying to claw his way out of the hole that society had kicked him into.

Besides, the kid had managed to learn to play the guitar like a fucking pro someplace in the mix of his chaotic life. That was pretty cool.

"C'mon, bro, band mates hate each other all the time. And I don't hate you, so you'd just be the resident asshole of the band," Angel said.

"Touching," replied Kenny.

"C'mon, McCormick," insisted Angel.

"No."

"C'monnn," he whined.

"No."

"_C'monnn_," he said, with a little more emphasis.

"What will it take for you to shut the fuck up?" Kenny finally demanded.

"I'll shut up if you say yes," Angel replied.

Little did Kenny know, after a frustrated groan ripped from his throat and he ground out, "Fucking fine. I'll be in your little gay band." Angel whooped in celebration, and Kenny rolled his eyes with an exasperated grunt. He picked up Teddy's crappy little alarm clock and hurled it across the bedroom. Angel ducked and it hit the wall, breaking open.

"Damn it, McCormick," Teddy grumbled, "I was starting to think you were okay, too."

"Dude," said Jess, "You really need to find something to calm your shit down."

"I was using heroin to do that, _dude_," Kenny argued. The last word rolled off of his tongue with venom. God, he fucking hated when people called him 'dude' when they knew nothing of him and certainly were not his friends. Kenny yapped on, "And I would use this fucking banjo, too, if fucking fagatron Angel wasn't such a pain in the ass every time I tried to play the thing."

Jess gave this outburst a mere stare. This never failed to intimidate Kenny, despite the fact that Kenny had about three inches of height on the guy. Jess was…buff. Thick-necked and stocky, with a heavyset brow and beady eyes. And it was fucking off-putting. Because you don't expect a guy that looked like Jess to read like some sort of book-devouring fiend. After a second of an epic Jess-level stare-down, he swung his legs off of his bunk and shuffled in his suitcase.

Kenny didn't like the look of the thing. On his second day at Coyote Ridge Ranch, he'd noticed that Jess kept his belongings as neat as a pin. Like Kyle. And that comparison pissed him off. He wanted Kyle to be nothing like creepy-ass Jess, but aside from the definite physical differences, he thought that the two would actually get along. They both liked reading. They were both anal as fuck about keeping their shit in perfect order. The only difference was that Jess was in rehab and Kyle would never have to end up in rehab.

Kenny didn't even know why Jess was in rehab, either, because like Kenny, he never spoke during boring-ass group therapy.

Jess set aside several neat stacks of seamlessly folded clothing, before extracting what he sought.

It was a book, naturally.

He held the thing with both hands, and extended it to Kenny, who could manage to do little more than look on, dumfounded at the bound bit of paper. He didn't fucking read. What about that was unclear to this Jess douchebag?

After an uneasy few seconds passed between them, Kenny snatched it out of Jess' grip. He said, "I told you that I don't read, asshole." But Kenny found himself looking at the cover of the book at least.

It was called _Sex, Sin and Zen. _The cover was mostly pink. A stylized cartoon of Buddha sat just below the title.

"Oh my _God_," Kenny exclaimed, "Buddha has a tattoo of a T-Rex on his arm! Dude, what the fuck kind of book _is this_?"

Because it looked…fucking awesome. Judging by the cover of course, because, no matter how much Kenny had been told not to do so, his method was pretty much always to judge a book by its cover. Literally, and if you were rolling with the metaphor of the saying, he tended to do that with people, too.

"The kind of book you'd like," Jess said with a lift of his shoulders, "You can keep it if you want."

Kenny eyed Jess, who had already brought his legs back up to rest on his bed and brought his eyes back to his own book (something entitled _The Poisoner's Handbook_, to add to the guy's extreme level of creepdom). He flipped to the Table of Contents, and looked over the guts of what he'd been reading _if_ he actually bothered to read it. Which, because Buddha had a T-Rex tat and there were lesbians on the cover, Kenny thought he just might.

The second chapter was called _Are Buddhists Allowed to Jack Off?_

Which was something Kenny had been wondering for _fucking ever. _

He looked over at Angel and Teddy, as if they would have explanations. He'd seen both of them reading once or twice, Teddy more than Angel, but neither nearly as much as the creepster himself. They were, oddly, not looking at Kenny. Like book-giving was just a typical thing with Jess. But then, maybe it was, and Kenny hadn't given enough of a shit to pay attention and find out.

He'd never thought that this would happen (but then, he hadn't expected the banjo circumstances, either), but he set aside the instrument that he'd been holding in his lap, gingerly placing it against the wall beside his bunk. He propped his pillow up, sat with knees bent, and opened to the first page of _Sex, Sin and Zen._

**o.o.o.o**

It was visiting day at Coyote Ridge Ranch Rehabilitation Center.

Kenny was miserable.

At first, he'd come to the commons, where families and friends alike congregated to greet their fucked-up comrades. Teddy's mom had brought him a stuffed elephant. Angel's grandmother had brought along two-year-old Anna, who Angel heaved up into his arms and spun around as soon as they saw each other. How was it that a sixteen year old was a better parent than his stupid fucking parents had ever been? It grated on him.

He didn't stick around for all the cheery bullshit. Nobody was coming to see him, and he knew that.

Jess was back in their bedroom.

Kenny found himself asking, "Do you not have any family?"

"Nope," said Jess.

"Friends?"

"Nil," responded Jess.

Well, that sucked. Kenny had both. Sure his family was horrible and the only person within it that he'd ever bother to acknowledge was his baby sister, but his friends were alright. He figured that Stan just didn't want to drive from Boulder to Buttfuck Egypt, Rocky Mountains (Truthfully, Kenny didn't know where he was. He'd been too fucked up upon arrival to figure it out. He just knew it was in the middle of nowhere).

There was a questioning knock on the door.

"Mr. McCormick? You have some friends here. They say that they're 'sorry for being so fucking late and that Bebe needs to learn how to fucking use GoogleMaps,'" said the voice on the other side of the door. It was one of the more fun counselors at Coyote Ridge Ranch—Mrs. Hinsdale. He chuckled at her robotic quotation of something that Stan had probably said.

Kenny gave a shrug to Jess, who wasn't looking at Kenny, anyway, and went back out to the commons.

Stan, Bebe and Wendy were there.

"No Kyle?" slipped out of Kenny's mouth before he could stop it from happening.

Stan shook his head, "He's not quite ready to see you, dude."

"You look great, Kenny," said Bebe. Despite being disappointed due to Kyle's absence, this made Kenny smile. Who didn't like being complimented by a chick with a spectacular rack? Even if she was totally lying through her teeth—he'd seen himself in the mirror that morning, after all. His hair was getting far too long for his taste, his skin was all dry and nasty and he looked exhausted.

They sat down at one of the round tables where arts and crafts took place, and Stan asked, "How have you been, dude? Bebe's right. You look a lot better."

"I look like a recovering addict, Stanley," Kenny responded. He extracted a purple Roseart marker from the utensil box in the center of the table and began to draw on the plastic table. He'd gotten scolded a few times for this, but as soon as they realized that the marker was washable, the counselors had let Kenny's childish table vandalism fly. He found himself drawing a stick figure with a ushanka.

This ticked him off.

Kenny scribbled the doodle out and drew a stegosaurus instead.

"So…" Wendy said, "What do you do here?"

"I dunno," Kenny responded, "They mostly make me do shit that I don't want to. But some of the people here are okay…I guess. Um, how's Kyle?" He didn't know why he wanted to know so much, or even what he wanted to hear from them. The pissed-off part of his brain (which was most of it) wanted Stan to tell him that Kyle had dumped Eli's stupid, pretty-boy ass and was now yearning for Kenny's return. The nicer, more rational part of his mind (which was coming back in very tiny fragments) just wanted Kyle to be happy. Even if it was with some stupid guy named Eli.

"He's pissed at you," said Bebe, examining her pink nails.

"Bebe!" Wendy absconded.

"What? It's true," said Bebe, "He doesn't even want to hear your name, dude."

Now that.

_That._

_That_ upset Kenny.

Bebe went on, despite vocal protests from both Stan and Wendy, "You fucked up, Kenny. These two want to sugarcoat it all and shit, but I already told them I was gonna tell you the truth. He hates your guts. He's pissed as fuck. He's mad that you hit him and quit him. He's mad that you got so hardcore into drugs. But I'm pretty sure the thing that's most up his butt is that Stan knows whatever sent you sailing into a downward spiral, and that you didn't tell him, instead."

Fucking feelings again. He didn't know how to react to Bebe's speech. He was hurt. Hurt because it felt like Kyle was being a dickhead. But he knew that Kyle had every reason to be mad at him.

Kenny stabbed the table with the purple marker in his fist so hard that he made a tiny splatter of cheap purple ink all over the tabletop and his hand.

_So_

_Much_

_Guilt_

He'd been casually wallowing in regret for a few days, but this feeling, this was fucking awful. He felt like the scum of the earth. Whore whore whore whore whore whore. Stupid Kenny McCormick, fucking shit up. God, he was an asshole. And that was putting it lightly.

The past two years had been nothing but mistakes. Except for Kyle.

Kenny had only ever been able to look back at their liaison with a dull, heavy ache weighing him down inside. Now that came with a sting. Goddamn Kyle. Kyle had always been there, always offered his help, always offered to make Kenny feel better, whether that was with food or games or pot or sex, he'd always pulled it off. And so what did Kenny turn around and do? Ignore him. Ignore Kyle Broflovski's extended hand and replace it with drugs, was what he had done.

And god, that night. The rape. He didn't want to ever have to tell Kyle. He felt so dirty, so horrible. When Kenny looked back, it felt like he'd cheated on Kyle, as ridiculous as that sounded. They hadn't even been in any sort of relationship. And it wasn't his fault he got raped. Right? That's what Stan said.

"Goddamnit, Bebe," muttered Stan, resting his forehead in his palms.

Kenny decided not to talk for the rest of the visit. Instead he drew frowny faces around his stegosaurus in red marker.

**o.o.o.o**

"I can't do this anymore," said Eli.

"What?" Kyle said. Eli pulled away from Kyle. They _had_ been indulging in post-sex naked-cuddling.

Eli pulled on his t-shirt and the sweater that he had been wearing over it. Boxers and pants followed. Kyle was too confused to dress. He just sat on his dorm room bed, sans clothing, staring at his boyfriend. Kyle repeated, "What?"

"I can't be with you anymore," Eli said uncomfortably.

A pang of feeling made Kyle's insides seize up. He said, "Why? What happened?"

"It's that Kenny kid," Eli explained, gathering his bookbag from the floor. He slung it over his shoulder, "I can't do this anymore because you don't care about me like you do about him. When we're together, all you do is bitch about him. You can't get over this dude, Kyle. And I can't take that. I need to date a guy that isn't hung up on some heroin addict."

"He's in rehab!" defended Kyle.

Eli heaved a sigh, "There is my point, right there. Instead of saying something like 'No, babe, I'm just having a rough time. I'll change' or any of that stupid crap, you jump to _his_ defense. Anyway, I've gotta go. I have to study for Chem. I'm sorry, Kyle. I am. Maybe when you stop being a total dick we can be friends again."

Eli made his dramatic exit out of Stan and Kyle's dorm room.

Fucking Kenny McCormick, Kyle thought.

Kenny would never stop making his life hard, would he?

**o.o.o.o**

**Well **_**hello there. **_**Yes, **_**hello, you, casual reader. **_**I notice you've been lurking on my fanfiction! There about thirty of you lovely lurkers, in fact. I find it rather flattering that you like my story, or at least I think you do, because you're reading it. But if don't, or even if you don't have any complaints, I do **_**so**_** love reviews. **

**On a similar thought, as always, thank you to my wondrous reviewers: MariePierre, and KirstenTheDestroyer. **

**Sidenote: **_**Sex, Sin and Zen**_** is a real book, that I am actually reading right now. It is so overwhelmingly Kenny that I just couldn't help but put it in here. **


	23. The Good Little Soldier

**Chapter Track: Measuring Cups – Andrew Bird**

"Here you go, Kenny," today it was his favorite nurse that was distributing medication. He kept this to himself. It was embarrassing. She had a sharp nose and red hair. Like Kyle.

Kenny took the paper Dixie cup from her grip and tipped the methadone back. He gave a nod before and a, "Thanks Helen," before shuffling back out of the medication line. He took a hell of a lot less of the methadone than he'd had to in the beginning.

Had it really been almost four and half months? Kenny felt like he'd been at Coyote Ridge Ranch so long that he'd didn't know he would function when he left. Worse, most of the people that he'd gotten to know had already done their time, were leaving, going back to the outside world where they didn't have scheduled arts and crafts and daily medication. Teddy had left a month ago and traveled back to his hometown in Arizona. Where, apparently (according to the computer time that Kenny had earned with "good behavior" and promptly squandered on Facebook), he was working at a Harbucks and going to community college for some sort of fancy-sounding science major.

Though Kenny would never confess this (and the only ones who would ever know were Angel and the two new guys they shared their room with), he'd started listening to a CD of the pussy-ass indie music that Teddy had left behind by accident. Kenny had a good reason, though. He'd recognized the name of the artist from someplace – Andrew Bird – and realized, eventually, that he'd seen Kyle wearing a t-shirt with the same name emblazoned across it. The reason that it had taken Kenny so long to put two and two together was because said t-shirt had not across been on Kyle's body for very long before being tossed on the floor.

And, to be honest, it wasn't _that_ bad. Sometimes it calmed Kenny down after Angel had said something to piss him off.

Jess had vanished into thin air as soon as he'd left. Not only did Kenny still not know what the dude had even been at the rehabilitation center for, Jess didn't do the whole social networking thing. He'd scribbled out an address for Kenny and Angel and left it behind with a, "If you need to talk, snail mail me." Weird fucker.

But, Kenny couldn't say he wasn't grateful to have met him, as creepy a fucker as Jess was. Kenny had finished reading _Sex, Sin and Zen_ a couple days before he had left Coyote Ridge Ranch. He'd turned right back to the beginning to read it again. He'd been sure that he hated books. But something about dry wit and the directness of the book appealed to him. And while it mildly freaked Kenny out that Jess had figured this out about him, he was thankful.

Angel sauntered over to where Kenny slouched against the wall, dumped his pills back and finished with a swig of water. He said, "We should name our band."

Another thing Kenny didn't want to confess to: He was genuinely enjoying playing the banjo in a band with Angel, one of the new guys in their room, and one of the girls from the chick's side of the clinic. While he probably wasn't anything special on the instrument, he was getting better. Or so he liked to think.

And he thought of Kyle, a lot, when he played music with their yet-unnamed band.

Fortunately, none of the three other bandmates had caught Kenny writing his crappy songs, yet. The day they did, he would fucking run for the hills. He wasn't a writer, he knew that. He spelled everything wrong and didn't rhyme and didn't make sense when he wrote down lyrics in the notebook that his therapist had given him. He stashed aforementioned notebook underneath his mattress, like some sort of contraband. The songs weren't _too_ sappy, he thought, but he couldn't be sure. Most of them were obscene.

Kenny turned his head to Angel and said, "What the hell would we name ourselves? We're like not even legit."

"If we weren't legit, why would the counselors let us fuck around with our music instead of going to group therapy and arts and crafts?" asked Angel.

"Because they're stupid," supplied Kenny.

Angel ignored him and went on, "I think we should call ourselves 'The Rehabilitated.'"

Kenny gaped at him, "That is the most retarded thing I have ever heard, dude. The _most retarded_ thing _ever_."

"Luckily for me, resident-band-asshole, Fran and Benny already said yes," Angel smirked.

Kenny groaned, "Goddamnit." He was surrounded by idiots. Constantly. Surrounded. He ran his hands through his blond hair, which was _definitely_ getting too long, now. He hadn't cut it since…like before he dropped out of high school. It now brushed his shoulders and he fucking hated it. He looked stupid.

"We found your songs," deadpanned Angel.

That got Kenny's attention. He stared and cried, "What the fuck, man! That shit is personal. There's a fucking reason I didn't show them to you guys. Where the hell is my notebook, faggot?"

Angel held up his hands in defense, "Dude. Chill. There are a couple of 'em that we all really like."

"Er, what?" Kenny managed. He hadn't expected anybody to actually _enjoy_ his shitty song-writing. He was so surprised by this, in fact, that he couldn't even think to keep up his biting banter with Angel. He just stared at the kid, unsure whether or not a joke was being played on him. Nobody had ever liked anything that Kenny did.

It was weird how compliments suddenly mattered to Kenny when they involved something that he gave two shits about. This never happened. This had maybe never even happened once before. Jesus Christ. This was the first time that somebody had said something nice about something Kenny had worked diligently on.

Angel frowned. "Are you okay, dude?" he asked.

"I have to sit down," Kenny muttered. He tore himself away from the wall and plopped down on one of the plastic chairs surrounding the arts and crafts tables.

Angel followed, and dragged out a chair so that he faced Kenny. He said, "Dude, did I say something wrong? We'll give your shit back. I didn't know, man. I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's not that," Kenny waved him off, "I…um. This is awkward. Nobody's ever said something so nice to me before. That's all."

Angel got very quiet. It was odd how the people at Coyote Ridge Ranch understood each other. Most of them originated from pretty fucked-up backgrounds. It didn't surprise Kenny whatsoever that Angel Gutierrez could empathize with never hearing a kind word about one damned thing. Kenny _still_ remembered when he'd been like six or seven or some shit, and he had worked his little fingers to the bone drawing an elaborate picture of his family in school. He'd even drawn his mother wearing a princess dress, because Wendy had told him that she would like that.

When he'd brought it home to proudly present to his parents, they'd been high, and his dad took the drawing, and announced, "That's stupid. My hat ain't that color."

His mom had agreed, "Jesus, Kenny, you're stupid. What the fuck I am I even wearin'? Dumbass kid."

Angel cleared his throat. He said, "We really like the one that you, um, drew shit all over."

That one. Of course. Kenny had poured his heart and soul into that stupid song. When he couldn't think of the next line, he'd start drawing Kyle's face. To the best of his ability. Which wasn't much ability at all. He felt his face flare up at the thought of three people looking at his private thoughts.

"Who was he?" asked Angel, "I mean, you don't have to tell me, dude. But you never know, sometimes telling a stranger something doesn't hurt."

Kenny found himself agreeing. Stupidly agreeing.

From there, what came out of Kenny's mouth was nothing short of word vomit. He blurted out what had happened, starting with the summer before senior year, and how Kenny had decided to make his best friend a conquest. He laughed bitterly when he remembered that he thought it would all end up being one funny joke and they'd be the most excellent friends-with-benefits ever. That Stan had warned him that Kyle felt shit like that strongly. That Kenny had ignored him. That Kenny had gone on and started fucking around with Kyle.

How Kyle took care of him.

Kenny found himself divulging even how Kyle had refused to sleep with Kenny because he'd been too fucked up. That should have seemed just fucking standard. Like, the minimum standards to be a decent human being: Not having sex with anybody that doesn't have the ability to consent right. But to Kenny, that had been the most considerate shit ever. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around it.

Kenny explained his orange parka, how the Broflovskis had given it to him as a Hanukkah gift, and why that was he absolutely refused to give it up. That was why he'd taken to actually attending arts and crafts, so that he could fix the parka up and sew band patches or other things over the numerous rips and stains.

God fucking _damn_ it. Kyle had been so nice to him, so patient with his bullshit, he explained to Angel (who, like his namesake, listened intently, nodding and commenting when appropriate).

And he explained what had happened that night at Kevin's welcome-back-from-jail party.

"Holy shit," murmured Angel, "Kenny, man. Mary, mother of God."

"It was my fault," he muttered back, "I was so fucked up. I shouldn't have gone to the thing in the first place. I mean, my brother's a total fucking douche. I knew that, and I still went."

"How many people have to tell you that that shit wasn't your fault before you believe it, man?" asked Angel, gently.

Kenny cast him a sideways glance and shrugged half-heartedly. He responded, "I don't know if I'll ever think it wasn't my fault. There was so much I couldn't have done to stop it from happening. So much, man."

"Rape wouldn't happen without rapists, dude," Angel said, "Like, people get fucked up all the time without that happening. And I know you probably don't want to hear this, but maybe you should tell this Kyle guy."

"He won't talk to me, dude," Kenny said back, "but I don't want to have to tell him that, anyway."

Angel seemed to recognized that Kenny's confession-time had come to a close. They stood simultaneously, and Angel suggested, "How about we practice your song, then, dude? You should sing it, too, man. Don't think I haven't heard you in shower."

Kenny rolled his eyes. He didn't exactly like it, but he could deal.

**o.o.o.o**

July 3rd.

Angel had been discharged from Coyote Ridge Ranch Rehabilitation Center a week before.

Now it was Kenny's turn.

They'd gotten him a job bussing tables at a hamburger place. It paid minimum wage, but that was alright. He just wanted to save up enough money to buy his own banjo, as gay as that sounded. Stan was supposed to be picking him up in – Kenny checked his watch – fifteen minutes. He'd be rooming with Stan in his apartment in Boulder, which was reportedly pretty ghetto. Stan said he'd caught people having sex in the communal laundry room more than once.

Kenny said he didn't give a shit.

He had, however, asked Stan how Kyle was taking the news. Kenny almost never used his phone privileges, except to call Stan, and as soon as Jess had left, to sometimes call him, too. It would be weird having a cell again. And computer access whenever he wanted it instead whenever he wasn't a pain the ass.

Kyle had refused outright to go anyplace near Kenny.

It stung.

But it was okay, Kyle's determination to avoid Kenny would be made easy for another six months, since he was going abroad to the United Kingdom.

Through the front windows, he watched Stan's pickup truck kick up dust as it pulled into the dirt lot. Kenny looked behind him, at the other two members of (still named against his will, because the name was still fucking retarded) The Rehabilitated. He afforded Fran a hug, and fist bumped Benny. He waved goodbye, and said with a salute, "I'll see you guys when you get out of here."

"Good luck, dude," said Benny.

"I'll miss you, Kenny," put in Fran.

Kenny pulled his duffel up off of the ground and slung it over his shoulder. He sighed, steeling himself, and walked out of the door.

"How you feeling, man?" asked Stan, "You want help with that?" he indicated to the duffel.

Kenny shook his head, "I got it. I'm…okay. I'm nervous."

"You got me, dude," Stan said, "You'll be fine. Boulder's an alright town. Even if there are way too many douchebags."

Kenny laughed lightly and tossed his duffel into the truck's back seat. He buckled up, lifted his feet up to rest them on the dash.

Stan started up the truck. They backed out.

As the sign that read Coyote Ridge Ranch faded further and further away, Kenny realized: For the first time ever, he would be living a real life.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey guys! So THANK YOU FOREVER TO MY BEAUTIFUL REVIEWERS. I love you so much: Wendlekins, MariePierre, TukiMiyu26, TheAwesome15, winged demon wolf, R. R. Miaera, and TheNerds. I don't know what I would do without you beautiful human beings.**

**A couple of things, though: So, I have a lot of shit going on, and though I will continue to desperately try to update every day, I am extremely stressed out and I might have stuff get in the way. I'll still update as often as I can, though, because writing this fic is actually keeping me sane most days.**

**ALSO. I do not know if any of you care about what I'm writing next, but after this has been completed (which will be in like 2 – 3 chapters, I think), I will be writing a Creek fic. I'm also always open to hearing about what pairings you guys want to see me write! So shoot me a message about that if you're so inclined. **


	24. From the Dark Side Danger

**Kenny's Chapter Track: Enter the Ninja – Die Antwoord**

**Kyle's Chapter Track: Jar of Hearts – Christina Perri**

"See you later, Kenny!" called Bebe, who also worked at Rueben's Burger Bistro—though she was higher on the food chain that he. He just cleaned up people's shit and washed dishes. Bebe got to actually serve food (She did, however, offer to trade him places once, on account of being hit on by the inordinate number of CU freshman 'bros.').

Kenny had night classes now, at the local community college. Stan sort of knew that they were going on. He didn't know that Kenny was working on becoming licensed as a rape crisis counselor. Stan remained the only one that knew about what had happened (and Angel, but Angel still lived over two hours away in buttcrack Aurora, Colorado) over a year and a half ago. Kenny figured that he'd eventually explain his career aspirations – holy fuck, why did it sound so weird when he thought of 'aspirations' in relation to himself?—to Stan. But, in all fairness, Stan could be kind of a big mouth. When Kenny told him about his classes, Stan would tell Wendy, who would tell Bebe, and as soon as Bebe knew, _everybody_ would know.

It wasn't that he was embarrassed, just that he didn't want his life to continue to be broadcast across the circles that he couldn't seem to rid himself of. Kenny supposed that that was what he deserved after completely obliterating his own life and being a general fuckface.

His fuckface days were over. He would make sure of that.

Kenny traipsed up to the apartment that he shared with Stan, fairly desperate to get into the shower. After working a long shift at Reuben's, he just reeked of grease and dishwashing soap. This would probably piss him off more if he didn't sneak free food and alcohol. Plus Reuben's mac n' cheese was the _shit_. He felt like a classy bastard every time he ate it, with all its fancy-ass add-ins and other delicious trimmings. No Kraft macaroni for Kenny McCormick. He was too busy being _dapper as fuck_.

Kenny sort of stumble-crashed into the apartment after tripping over the undone laces of his own boots.

Fortunately, and unlike the night before, Stan was _not_ on the couch, half-naked and with Wendy. While Wendy definitely had a nice set of tits, Kenny felt like he shouldn't have been looking at them. Which he had. A lot. Until the eager couple had finally noticed him standing in the doorway with takeout bags in his hands.

No, tonight Stan was eating a bowl of cereal and playing his Chinpokomon Cerulean game (Kenny recognized the music).

Stan paused his game a said, "Hey dude."

"Hey," Kenny nodded back, "I'm gonna get in the shower. Is Wendy coming over later? You really need to warn me about that shit, bro."

"I know, I know. And no, she isn't. Dude, stop scratching at your tat. You're gonna ruin it," Stan made face.

Kenny lowered his hand from his sternum. It was fucking _difficult as shit_ not to scratch his new tattoo. He made a face at his roommate and set his backpack down at the base of the sofa. Kenny flipped on the television, and while channel surfing, asked, "So…Kyle's coming back in a month, right?" He tried to make his tone of voice as casual as possible, but Kenny just ended up sounding too nonchalant to be believable.

"Where did you hear that?" Stan snapped his Gameboy shut, and drummed his fingers on the kitchen table.

"Through the grapevine," Kenny shrugged casually, settling on watching Adventure Time. He was fairly certain that his taste in television would never, ever mature (Besides, this cartoon had jokes in that he felt would go right over the heads over younger kids—okay, maybe they wouldn't have gone over Kenny's head when he was little, but he didn't really count. Plus: His favorite line he'd ever heard in a cartoon? "No one flicks my butt without my consent!").

"Okay, I guess it doesn't matter what you heard about Kyle's glorious return from jolly old England," Stan began, "But he is _still_ pissed at you. And I don't want you to fuck with him, alright? Seriously, dude. Instead of replaying what started two years ago, how about not being a shithead and actually listening to me, for once?" That was fair, decided Kenny. Stan gave excellent advice and nobody ever listened to it.

Kenny slumped back into their ugly, cheap sofa and responded, "Fine."

"He still cares about you," said Stan.

"I know," said Kenny, though he wasn't sure he believed his own words.

"I don't want either of you to get hurt," Stan added.

"I know," Kenny said again, this time telling the truth. It didn't mean that his head and heart weren't tearing themselves apart in the classic war of feelings versus logic.

"You're my best friends," Stan continued.

Kenny said again, "I know." He hated to admit it, but he and Kyle had both been pretty shitty friends to Stan during the ordeals with one another.

"He's only staying for a couple of nights here, anyway," Stan went on, "and then he's gonna move back in the dorms with some friend of his that went with him on the exchange trip. After that maybe you two can, like, get used to each other again or some shit."

Kenny got really, really quiet. He decided that he wouldn't—and didn't want to—talk about it anymore. Nevertheless, he found the words falling out of his mouth, "I'm having trouble moving on."

"But you're fucking Bebe," said Stan, at a loss.

"I've always fucked Bebe. I'm having trouble moving on," Kenny repeated.

"He is too, dude, but you're both gonna have to," Stan stood up from their shitty kitchen table and plopped onto the couch beside Kenny. He took the remote from Kenny's hand and muted the television before saying, "Look, maybe if you guys had started your…thing…together under different circumstances, it would have worked out. But it didn't, dude, and it won't. Now you guys have too much fucking history and a shitload of baggage. It's just bad juju, Kenny. Bad."

Kenny gave this a nod.

At last, he said once more, "I know."

**o.o.o.o**

One Month Later

Kyle paid the taxi driver in ones—most of his money was still in pounds and some of it in euros from his short stint in France with Pip. He still couldn't believe that Stan lived in this dump. It looked like nobody ever took care of the place, and it seemed a popular hangout area for creepers.

Already, he missed England. It wasn't that he didn't like Colorado, because he did. And he'd been totally fucking homesick by the end of his excursion. But he liked cloudy skies and drizzly days and tearooms. As gay as that sounded. And okay, he missed having a pint at the pub, and Jesus, the castles. He'd felt like a proper, perfect WoW nerd while exploring places like the Tower of London.

He'd sent most of his stuff back in the mail instead of lugging ten million suitcases across an ocean and half a country, but the one that he'd used as his carry-on was still heavy as fuck. He dragged it to the elevator, but saw, with a bout of frustration that a sign had been taped to it that said "Out of Service." Under this, scrawled in chicken scratch handwriting and purple sharpie read, "Hey assfucks, how about getting it fixed?" With a sharp shoot of pain in Kyle's jetlagged brain, he realized that the purple sharpie offender must have been Kenny. That was his handwriting. How the fuck did Kyle know that, anyway?

He sighed. At least Stan had promised that Kenny and Kyle wouldn't cross paths during the unfortunate two days in which Kyle had no place to live ("_He works when you're here, dude,"_ and _"Chill, Kyle. When he's not working, he's usually asleep."_).

Step by painful, torturous step, Kyle dragged up his heavy suitcase. It was weighed down mostly by the novelty tankards he'd bought in various cities he'd visited during his trip, and a florid, ultra-feminine teapot with a fancy gold border from Buckingham Palace, because Wendy had been getting into an odd sort of teapot collecting pre-trip. Kyle hoped it hadn't turned out to be a phase, because that fucking teapot cost an arm and leg. Due to the delicate nature of these purchases, he had to be even more careful whilst dragging his shit up the seemingly never-ending sets of unclean apartment stairs.

Panting, Kyle set his suitcase outside of Stan and Kenny's apartment door, and for a moment, caught his breath. He wiped away the sheen of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand.

There was music playing loudly within the apartment. It wasn't Stan's usual tuneage, and Kyle wondered if maybe Bebe was over or something. He felt like he'd heard her listening to something similar a couple times. It had a quick, sort of strange beat to it.

Kyle knocked on the apartment door before opening it. He knew Stan wouldn't keep it locked if he was home.

He was met with three surprised faces: Stan's, Wendy's, and Bebe's.

"Dude, what are you doing here?" asked Stan.

Kyle's brow furrowed, "I said I'd be here at seven. Did you not get my text, man?"

"I thought you meant, seven PM, dude, not now," Stan exasperatedly answered.

That was when Kenny _danced_ into the room. He was holding scrambled eggs in a frying pan in one, oven-mitted hand, and in the other, a greasy spatula. He didn't notice Kyle at first, simply did a little twirl as he scraped eggs onto the dishes of the three people at the table. He sang along with the song, using the spatula as one would use a sword, "_MY BLADE SWING FREE, DECAPITATE A HATER WITH AMAZING EASE, THIS IS NOT A GAME, BOY—_"

And that was when Kenny turned and noticed Kyle.

Kenny looked good.

Maybe even better than Kyle had ever seen him. Sure, his blond hair was sticking up in a sort of Tweek-like manner from sleeping funny, and he wasn't wearing anything but a pair of heart-patterned boxers, and…oh, fuck it, he looked incredible. He had a new tattoo on his upper chest that was still a little red around the edges. Kyle couldn't read what the stylized ink said, but there were twisting, thorny vines and roses surrounding the words.

Kenny coughed into his oven-mitted hand and said, "Um. Kyle. You're…early."

"I'm not early," Kyle replied tightly, "But Stan is _fucking retarded._" He glared with all of the anger he could summon, eyes flashing, at Stan. Seeing Kenny was not something that he'd been prepared for. Kyle had thought that his morning would consist of the crappy coffee that Stan kept around, and a nice, thorough couch-nap to recover from his internal clock throwing a fit.

God fucking damn it. No matter how hard Kyle tried, he couldn't get over Kenny McCormick.

"Fuck," Kyle managed to squeak out. He cast an accusing look at Kenny and demanded, "Why can't I just stop fucking caring about you? Jesus Christ." With that, Kyle shoved past the topless blond and into one of the bedrooms—which thankfully proved to be Stan's. He locked the door behind him, covered his ears with Stan's pillow (which smelled like Wendy's goddamn perfume. Ugh), and proceeded to mope.

**o.o.o.o**

"Kyle, you need to come out of there sometime," Stan said, running an irritated hand through his black hair.

By this time, Kenny had gone off to work, and although Stan didn't have anywhere that he needed to be, he did need access to his bedroom so that he could actually get dressed.

"Dude, stop listening to that song. This is the gayest you have ever been in your entire life. Now let me in," Stan insisted.

Kyle shot back from the other side of the door, "Fuck off, Stan. You listened to this song for like two days after you and Wendy got into that huge-ass fight last year. And I can do as many gay things as I want, asslicker. I'm _gay_."

Stan blushed. It was a low blow. He had, in fact, done exactly what Kyle was doing: Lying in bed with "Jar of Hearts" turned up to a full, blasting volume, singing along, and moping. Finally, Stan caved in and did what he thought he might have to. The apartment's doors were not quality. Nor were the locks. He simply jiggled the handle, hard, and shoulder the door open, with a crack. He wondered how long it would be until the landlord came over to fix that doozie…

Kyle had broken into his mini fridge.

"There's a reason I keep that locked, stupid," said Stan.

Kyle raised his (Stan's, actually) cold beer and said, "There's a reason I had that locked, stupid."

In the background, Christina Perri sang soulfully, _"And who do you think you are, runnin' 'round leaving scars, collecting your jar of hearts…"_

"He's not here. He went to work. But I'm sure it will please you to know that you ruined Kenny's morning," Stan said. He took a seat on his own bed.

That actually didn't please Kyle whatsoever. Now he felt bad. Kyle frowned and replied, "No, that doesn't make me happy."

"He wants to bury the hatchet, you know. This whole thing is killing him, man," Stan said. Feeling abruptly put out, Stan crossed the small bedroom to his broken-into mini fridge and pulled out a beer of his own. He popped the lid off with his bottle opener keychain, tossed the cap someplace into the depths of the swamp he lived in, and came back to sit beside Kyle.

"What if he fucks up again? What if I'm just stupid for trusting him?"

"Kenny's working really hard to never have that happen again, dude," Stan took a deep swig of beer, "But it's your call. I don't fucking know what to do. Now that you and Kenny have realized that I'm not totally stupid, you're treating me like the magical advice-giving unicorn, when really, I just go by instinct. And I'm not the one that wants to fuck him, either."

"Sorry," Kyle muttered, "I just…I…Stan, it's so fucked up. It's like I want to believe in him like you do, but he really just fucking bent me down and fucked me over. _Not literally! _Okay, well, yes literally, but—fucking hell. Why are fucking feelings so hard to explain?"

"You are asking the wrong dude," Stan said, gulping down more beer. Why did he feel like today would transform into one of those drinking-like-a-fish kind of nights?

Love. That was so fucking complicated.

What was worse was that Kyle hated saying how he felt out loud. It didn't used to bother him. It did now. He felt like if he did speak about the inner workings of his heart and mind, the person that he loved would just run off and vanish. It was an irrational fear, he thought, or maybe it wasn't, because the person that he loved was Kenny McCormick. Yup. Fuck. There it was. He loved the stupid bastard. He loved his stupid crooked grin and his long-fingered hands and his dirty jokes. He loved Kenny's gritty half-laugh and his hair, and how he knew exactly what turned Kyle on.

"Drink our sorrows away?" suggested Stan, lifting a single brow.

"Sounds about right," agreed Kyle.

A few more beers later, and Kyle still hated his life and loved Kenny McCormick. But at least he was drunk enough to not care until the next morning's hangover.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey guys. I think there might be one more chapter and then an epilogue, just so you know where this is all headed. And you'll be sent off with some more smut, no worries. ;)**

**I actually want to dedicate this chapter to Amberr-chan, who gave me the nicest, most wonderful review ever, right when I needed it. This week has been like the shittiest week that ever shat on my life, so it was totally the best thing I could have gotten. Thank you so much!**

**And naturally, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you to my other lovely reviewers. In case you missed that part up there, I am having a terrible time right now and your kind words make me feel a little less like cutting a bitch: kyla k, Wendlekins, Mallory, TheAwesome15, MariePierre, R. R. Miaera, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx and TheNerds. So much love for you guys, so much. It borders on creepy.**

**OH AND. I WROTE PART OF THIS IN REAL, LIVE, ACTUAL SOUTH PARK. Sadly, there is no Tweak Bros or Harbucks, but I did have a hot chocolate in a little place called the Java Moose. It's a cute little town, and the drive through the mountains was totally gorgeous. :D**


	25. What is in Your Heart

**Chapter Track: Little Lion Man – Mumford and Sons**

"Oh, fuck dude! Goddamnit Stan-" Kyle threw down the Xbox controller in a fit.

Stan gave a victorious cackle before switching off the TV. He motioned wordlessly for Kyle to pass the jumbo bag of Cheesy Poofs. Mouth full of artificial cheesy goodness, he said, "You wanna go to a show tonight?"

Kyle shrugged, "I'm still super jetlagged, man, I dunno. Who's playing?"

"The Rehabilitated," Stan said.

"That's the most retarded name I've ever heard," Kyle said.

Stan chuckled, "Kenny said the same thing."

Kyle paused, and frowned. "What do you mean 'Kenny said the same thing'? I'm not going if he is."

Stan recovered with a quick, "Oh, I asked him if he wanted to go like last week, but he has work. I really want to go see them play, dude, they're good. And you need to like…get out more."

Kyle considered this. True, he'd become sort of a caveman since returning from England last week. He'd mostly been sitting around and reading, sometimes sleeping, mostly just trying to keep his mind off of the people around him. Because, when Kyle spent even a few moments concentrated on his social life, his thoughts inevitably swapped back to Kenny. He exhaled slowly and said, "Fine. Fiiiine. I'll go, but only because we're super best friends, asshat."

Stan clapped him on the shoulder, and with mouth still full of Cheesy Poofs, he said, "Shit yeah."

Kyle had no idea that Stan was congratulating himself on his acting skills.

**o.o.o.o**

"You made it!" Wendy said.

Stan gave his girlfriend a chaste kiss on the lips. He said, "It took a little convincing, but Kyle finally decided to emerge from his lair."

Kyle rolled his eyes. He said, "You're not usually so huge on music, dude. They must be something else."

When the band began setting up onstage, Kyle thought they looked kind of young. At least the guitar player did—the guy barely topped out at five feet, if Kyle had to venture a guess. He was sort of baby-faced, and he had to admit that when the guy waved to an older lady holding a squirming toddler in the back of the venue, he about shat a brick. For all the downfalls of Kyle's parents, they'd at least made sure to give him an all-encompassing sex education (after they'd torn the school apart for not teaching them well enough, naturally, but they did eventually bother to educate Kyle on the 'ways of the world'). And Christ, Kyle was glad he was he was gay. It was nice to be able to have guilt-free sex and not have to worry about knocking up the dude you were fucking.

Just saying.

The other band members looked fairly standard. There was a chick in stylishly ripped-up, ribbed tanktops layered on top of each other, a kind of Clyde-like cutely chubby guy with huge gauges in his ears, and a skinny kid with the hood of his black jacket pulled up over his hair. He had a nice body. So, Kyle supposed, even if he didn't like the music, he could appreciate the view.

The skinny kid took a seat on the barstool that he'd dragged onstage, and pulled a banjo into his lap.

Oh, nice. He played a banjo. That was kind of attractive. Now, if only the guy was gay…it seemed that lately every dude that Kyle had an interest in turned out to be straight. He was fucking cursed.

Kyle got a soda for the sake of something to sip on while he looked on at the band and crowd, since Stan and Wendy were liplocked at the moment. They always started out being considerate of Kyle's third-wheel presence, and ended up half-humping each other against a wall someplace (Or, maybe full-on humping someplace else, but if the night reached that point, Kyle didn't tend to actively seek the couple out. He had made that mistake only once).

"Hey," the short kid said, "I'm Angel, and we're The Rehabilitated." There was a quiet cheer and some half-hearted applause. Angel went on, "I'm gonna dedicate this one to my baby girl."

They weren't bad. The music was good, if a little unpracticed. Kyle found himself unable to look away from the banjo player. Out of all of the band members, that guy was kicking ass. Kyle wished he'd take down his hood. He wanted to know if the guy had a face as hot as his body and his banjo playing skills. Of course, if he did, it would only mean that the dude had met Kyle's one-night-stand criteria. He'd have to be a smart bastard, too, if Kyle was to have any actual interest in him beyond sex.

Wow. He was getting way too fucking ahead of himself.

The songs were catchy. He liked what he was hearing. Kyle also had a feeling that this was the kind of band that would start rocking super hard in a couple of years, and Kyle would end up being the pretentious shit that would say, "I knew about them when they first started." Just so he would be able to do this, Kyle dished out the ten bucks required to get one of the band's homemade t-shirts at the merch table, and slipped it on over his other tee.

The fourth song came to a close, and Angel took a drink from his bottle of water before going on, "Hey. So, this is our last song. We're gonna switch it up here. This one was written by our own Kenny McCormick, and he's gonna sing it."

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck _fucking _fuck Goddamnit.

"Stan," Kyle growled. His head swiveled to where his friend had been just a few minutes before, but he and Wendy had vanished into thin air. Those _assholes_. Stan had manipulated Kyle on fucking purpose just so that he'd go see Kenny's show. This was low, fucking low, for Stan Marsh. When Kyle saw the dude again, he would wring his neck and rejoice in his death. That _fucker_.

The banjo player, of course, slid from his barstool perch and switched places with Angel. He took down his hood and licked his lips before speaking into the mic, "Hey, sorry you've had to listen to this asshole for so long." The crowd laughed, and Angel flipped Kenny off.

Kyle turned to go back to his dorm.

Behind him, he heard Kenny go on, "Don't leave."

Kyle felt, without turning around, every head in the venue turn to look at the one guy making his way toward the door. He clenched his fists and said nothing, but Kyle did immobilize.

Kenny obviously took this as a sign to say his piece, "I wrote this in rehab. I've been reassured that it isn't stupid, but I only really want your opinion, okay?"

"C'mon, dude!" shouted the bartender.

A couple of girls from within the crowd shouted, "Yeah, c'mon!"

Kyle heaved a long, angry sigh. He turned around, stalked back the few steps that he'd taken away from the stage. He stood, scowling, and made an exasperated motion with his hand, as if to say, _well, proceed the fuck on._ Stan had no idea how dead he was going to be when Kyle found him. That bastard was going down. Way, way, _way_ down.

Kenny licked his lips a second time. Even from where Kyle stood, he could see that Kenny was playing with his lip ring. His nervous little tic. The assbag should be nervous. He said into the mic, softly, "Thanks, dude," and waved to Angel, saying under his breath, "And a one and two-"

Angel started on his guitar at first. He seemed to be better at this song than some of the others. They must have practiced this more.

Then the girl in the torn up clothing entered, with her keyboard.

Then Kenny, on his banjo. Kyle didn't even know that Kenny could play. He seemed to recall some distant memory of Cartman making fun of him when they were kids because he was poor and that had been his instrument of choice, but he couldn't…well. Kyle was having trouble forming thoughts.

_"Weep for yourself, my man. You'll never be what is in your heart…"_

It was his voice that really did Kyle in. He felt like he should have known that Kenny could sing, too. Like, hadn't Kenny gone to Europe one time when he was little because he could sing so well? Why hadn't he paid attention?

"_But it was not your fault, but mine_

_ And it was your heart on the line_

_ I really fucked it up this time_

_Didn't I, my dear?"_

Oh, God.

Kyle felt the scowl he'd been wearing literally melt off of his face. He ran a hand through his red hair, and gnashed his teeth, feeling like general shit. He watched the crease in Kenny's brow deepen as he sang. He watched Kenny toss his messy hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head so that he could play his instrument with adept hands. Kyle didn't want to think about Kenny's hands. He knew what they were capable of. Kyle should have known that his hands were capable of this.

And did he say that he'd written this?

Jesus Christ.

When they finished the song, Kyle was frozen, stuck to the ground on which he stood. Kenny slowly lowered his banjo. Their gazes connected, and Kenny gave Kyle a tragic sort of half-smile. Kyle didn't react. He _couldn't_ react. He didn't fucking know how. And so, after a moment of unbroken staring, Kenny gave a sad little shrug, slid from his stool, and pulled his hood back over his hair.

**o.o.o.o**

Kyle had walked for awhile. He had to let the feelings settle.

But eventually, his feet had taken him to the apartment complex that housed Kenny and Stan. He walked up the stairs, since the elevator was still broken. He paused at their apartment door. What if Kenny wasn't home? What if it was just Stan and Wendy and all Kyle would get it he dared open the door was an eyeful of nudity he could have done without ever seeing?

Oh well. He'd do what he had to do, and what he absolutely knew he had to do was talk to Kenny.

At first, Kyle thought that maybe _nobody_ was in the apartment. But, he heard something, as he took his few first steps into the living room. It was a banjo.

Kyle steeled himself for a moment, set his fingers on the doorknob to Kenny's bedroom, and opened the door.

Kenny was in bed, laying with his banjo across his chest. He jumped when Kyle entered the room. He must have been spacing.

"Kyle," he said.

"Hey," Kyle said back.

Kenny scooted back so that he sat up against his headboard, and rested his instrument down against his bedside table. He patted the mattress beside him. Kyle took the offer. They sat there silently for a few moments.

"Ky-"

"Kenny-"

"You go first," he said.

Kyle nodded. He cleared his throat and announced, "I forgive you."

Kenny smiled, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Kenny took in a deep breath. He said, "Thank fucking god. I thought I'd just pissed you off more."

"No!" Kyle said, a little too sharply. He repeated, more quiet this time, "No. You wouldn't. I've been a shithead, okay? I know that. I just. Um. Well, I dunno. I guess I just wanted to be a shithead for awhile."

"I have to tell you something, Kyle," Kenny said, then.

"Something like what?"

"Something like why I relapsed," Kenny said. His voice had withered down to a thin thread of volume. He looked pale. He looked like he didn't want to talk about it at all, really, but felt obligated to.

So, despite burning curiosity, Kyle said, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I know I've been pissy about it, but I was being a shithead, you know."

Kenny shook his head, "You're always too fucking considerate, dude. Too fuckin' considerate."

And so Kenny told him. He told Kyle about Kevin getting released from jail and the party that had followed that evening, and what had happened at that party. He told him _everything_—how it had hurt, how fucked up he'd been, how he'd been in a state where he knew what was happening but he didn't _know_, and how badly he wished that he could be able to die. How drugs seemed to help.

Kyle started to cry.

Kenny pulled Kyle down so that they laid together, with Kyle's head resting in the crook of Kenny's neck as he sniffled and whispered incoherently, "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

Kenny told him about how he'd woken up early on that December twentieth so long ago, how he'd gone to get coffee and seen his mom, how she was okay with him banging dudes. Then, how he went to the movies to get his mind of things. Kenny described how actually having to think about all the bullshit he'd put himself through was eating him up inside. How, when he looked up and saw _those eyes_, he'd just snapped. He couldn't take the constant thoughts and cravings and self-loathing.

"I'm okay, thought Kyle. I'm alright now. It's fine," Kenny reassured the shaking boy in his arms. Who knew that Kenny telling the story of his rape would end up with him comforting Kyle? Maybe that was because Kenny was beginning to come to terms with what had occurred that night. He couldn't take it back. It _did_ happen. But he could heal. And he would. Kenny McCormick was a strong motherfucker. Perhaps he hadn't always been, but he sure as fuck was now.

"Christ, I'm so fucking stupid," muttered Kyle.

"No. No, you're not," Kenny said.

He smoothed a hand down along the edge of Kyle's jaw. Placing his knuckles underneath the redhead's chin, Kenny tipped Kyle's head up. Their eyes connected again, and Kenny bent, just barely, to place a hesitant, closemouthed kiss to Kyle's lips. A moan escaped Kyle.

Mouths fells open, tongues collided. Kenny could taste Kyle's tears. As they fell, he kissed each one away and murmured, "Don't cry. Don't cry. I'm fine. You're wonderful. Don't cry." He felt Kyle's cold hands snake up underneath his t-shirt. Kyle made a noise of frustration when he could get the bit of clothing off of Kenny's head. Kenny helped. He shifted Kyle so that Kenny sat on his knees, one on either side of Kyle's denim-clad legs. He tugged the t-shirt away.

Kyle smoothed his hand over Kenny's tattoo.

It read: _The system might fail you, but don't fail yourself. _Surrounding these looping words were thorny vines, punctuated by roses. There were two sparrows facing opposite directions at the top. And…a skull with a top hat and a joint between its teeth. Of course. Only Kenny.

Kenny blushed a little at the touch. He explained, "It's, er, from a song. But, I-"

"It's _fucking hot_," Kyle said, and he yanked Kenny down by his blond hair to kiss him roughly.

Their erections brushed against one another through the fabric of their jeans, and both boys moaned loudly. Kenny grunted and tugged helplessly at the hem of Kyle's two t-shirts. Kyle raised his arms and the shirts were hastily dispatched. Kenny placed heavy, swift kisses all across Kyle's pale chest.

Kenny paused.

"What is _that_?"

Kyle blinked back out of his lust and looked down. He flushed pink and answered, "Um, that is a nipple piercing."

Kenny grinned wickedly. He stooped down and drew his tongue across the piercing. Kyle gasped and arched against him. Kenny mumbled, "Does this have a story?"

Kyle tangled his hands in Kenny's blond hair. He pushed kisses up against his neck and sucked. In between, he said, "Not really. Pip and I got plastered in York. He dared me to get it done. I did. I like it, so I haven't taken it out."

Kenny didn't seem to really be listening. He was more focused on getting Kyle's pants undone. He did, however, creak out, "So sexy," before he tore Kyle's jeans away from his body with such vigor that he took Kyle's briefs with them. Kenny's mouth was on Kyle's cock in an instant. Kyle groaned, and writhed. He drove his hands further into Kenny's hair and brought him up and down, up and down, hips bucking.

"Kenny! K-Kenny, I'm gonna-"

"No, you're not," Kenny said. He pulled his mouth away from Kyle's dick with a grin on his face that could not be described as anything less than absolutely evil. Kyle made a whining sound at the loss and squirmed.

Kenny, ever the multitasker, whipped off his own pants and slammed his bedside table's drawer open. It caused his banjo to fall against the carpet with a clang, but neither paid enough attention. Kenny came up with a bottle of lube, which, in his desperation, he squirted a little too generously onto his fingers. Kenny jumped straight to two fingers.

Kyle hissed at the sensation of Kenny's hand entering his body. He wriggled as he adjusted to the feeling. Aw, God, it was fucking wonderful to have Kenny do this again. Nobody else knew what he liked better than Kenny did. Kenny scissored and explored. Kyle panted and muttered, "_Fuck_. Christ, Kenny."

Kenny swallowed Kyle's cries in a hard kiss. Kyle keened when Kenny's hand left him, but he felt something much better being pressed toward him.

Kenny broke the kiss for a moment.

His gray-blue eyes were cloudy with lust as he half-whispered, half-cried, "I fuckin' love you, Kyle Broflovski."

Kyle broke out into a grin. He gripped Kenny's ass with both hands and brought him forward. Kenny entered Kyle's body with one succinct thrust, and they both moaned at the top of their lungs. Kyle breathed, "I fuckin' love you too, Kenny McCormick."

They chuckled breathlessly as Kenny began to move. They moaned each other's names between savage thrusts and heated kisses. Kyle clawed at Kenny's back and Kenny pulled at Kyle's curly hair. Tears of pleasure pricked the corners of Kyle's eyes.

The headboard began to bang against the wall with each thrust forward.

_Bang._

_ Bang._

_ Bang._

_ Bang. _

_ BangbangbangbangbangbangBANG._

Kenny wrapped his hand around Kyle's dick, moving his hand up and down and up and down with as much precision as he could muster in his desire-crazed state.

"_FUCK!_" they cried in sync as they came.

They laid there, chest to chest, for a moment. Kenny gave absolutely zero shits that Kyle's semen was all over his chest. In fact, he found it to be _fucking awesome. _Kenny twisted downward and captured Kyle's kiss-swollen mouth in his own, nipping down gently before withdrawing and settling into the mattress.

Kyle pulled off to the side.

Kenny's heart sunk. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"What? I thought you just didn't like cuddling or whatever," Kyle said, flipping back over to gaze at Kenny.

"C'mere, you fucking r-tard," Kenny mumbled, and he wrapped his arms around his lover, pulling their sweaty bodies together. Kenny nuzzled Kyle's neck and kissed his ear, before tangling their legs together tightly.

Kenny said, "I'm serious, though. I really fucking love you."

Kyle leaned backward. He pressed a soft, heartfelt kiss along Kenny's scruffy jaw, and replied, "I'm serious, too. I love you."

"I love you," Kenny said, experimenting with hearing the words roll off of his tongue.

"I love you, too, dude."

They both grinned like idiots.

**-Fin-**

**(Epilogue to follow)**

**o.o.o.o**

**WELL. Voila! THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU GUYS: MariePierre, xXxDonnieDarkoxXx, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, R. R. Miaera, Mallory, Wendlekins, and Amberr-chan. REVIEWERS, Y U SO AMAZING? Anyhowww, after I write you a nice little epilogue, my next projects shall be a Creek fic, and a Style fic (as per the request of TheAwesome15). If any of the rest of you have requests, holler at me. I love you and will write you things.**

**Oh and derp. Kenny McCormick did not write those lyrics, Mumford & Sons did, and you should go listen to that song if you're not familiar with it.**


	26. Ending Credits: It's a Wonderful Life

**Ending Credits: It's a Wonderful Life – Sparklehorse**

Some days were better than others. But that's how it always goes, isn't it?

Some days, they'd argue because Kenny used too much of the hot water while taking one of his famous hour-and-a-half long showers. And then later argue about how Kenny was not participating in writing his schedule on the calendar that Kyle so anally kept. And then even later argue about how Kenny had gotten McDonalds instead of waiting for dinner.

Other days, they'd drink and be merry. And have sex. Then, they'd go to sleep happy. The usual.

Sometimes, the days would be ordinary. They'd wake up and walk through their respective routines and collapse together at the end of the day, only to wake up and do it all again.

On rare days, life was so good it felt like fantasy. You're probably familiar with those days: The ones where you wake up feeling refreshed, your morning latte has never tasted more delicious, work and school are a little more than tolerable (maybe even somewhat enjoyable), you come home to your lover holding a bottle of wine and wearing nothing more than a wicked grin, and you go to bed warm and snuggly and fucking satisfied.

But there were _really_ bad days, too.

Like the day that Karen McCormick showed up on their doorstep after riding a bus from South Park to Boulder, her face so bruised that her own brother hadn't even recognized her at first. And how this really, _really_ bad day sparked a series of really, really, _really_ bad days in which twenty-two-year-old Kenny fought like hell so his sister wouldn't have to go back to their 'home' in South Park.

They were living.

Maybe it wasn't 'happily ever after,' but who knows what the hell that means, anyhow?

How do you know that you're living happily ever after?

Is it after a year?

Five years?

Ten?

Twenty?

Or never?

At least in Kenny's mind, he figured that he'd have no fucking clue whether or not they'd made it to 'happily ever after' status until Kyle was dead and he was still roaming around unable to follow (Maybe by that point, Cthulhu would relent and let him kick the bucket? One could only hope). But he didn't like to think about that. Nor did he have to. That was at least like sixty fucking years down the road, and seriously, fuck thinking about the future. He was too goddamn busy with the present to give two shits about where today would take him tomorrow.

So, while life was by no means perfect, it was pretty damned decent.

Happily ever after? Maybe not.

Happy for now?

Sure, why the fuck not.

**o.o.o.o**

**Another round of thanks here to all my lovely reviewers. So: I wanted to let you all know that with the Creek fic, I will probably take a little longer in between updates. I'll still update quickly, mind you, because I'm writer's blocked for pretty much anything else. I just don't want to fuck up the Creek fic, because Craig & Tweek are like my internet bffl's (Hi Laura!) babies and I don't want to ruin them. So. I'm gonna work a little harder on that front. The good news for you is that this (probably) means that I will have longer updates. Anyway, shoot me a PM if you need/want anything. Oh and PS, it is impossible to creep me out. I promise. **


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